Chapter 63 Lachlan
Lachlan
Will’s smirk hovered near the lip of the whisky bottle. “She seems nice.”
“Get out.”
If looks could kill, Lachlan would be standing over his little brother’s dead body, not watching him slobber into his most expensive stock. Lachlan would be following the tug in his ribs to run into the rain after Deli and stop her. To explain.
“Lachlan, please. This is my dad’s pub, too.”
“You don’t get to say that. You did nothing for them. For us.”
Will sighed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling—resurrecting the hot static of anger Lachlan felt every time Will fake-cried to win an argument as kids. “I have offered a million times—”
Lachlan cut him off. “I’m not letting you turn this place into a joke.”
“But you’ll let it die?”
The scattered papers across Lachlan’s desk flashed in his mind. The numbers—sinking farther and farther into the red. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Just like Dad did?”
Lachlan scowled. He hated William for saying it. Hated his father for leaving him a pub in a dying town without a plan. Hated himself for staying the course.
“Lachlan, listen.” Will’s voice softened.
“We have a problem, and we have a solution. Tourism is the only thing that’s gonna save The Wallflower—hell, this town.
It’s crumbling.” Lachlan met his eyes for a moment, but they slid away like flint striking flint.
“I know how this is going to sound, but—do you realize how many women will travel here just to sit where I’ve sat?
To wonder if I’ve drunk from the same cup?
” Will dropped the kidding tone. “If you make this the home of The Highlander’s Billy Burns? You’ll survive.”
A coil of the bar’s sealant peeled up under Lachlan’s fingernail. The bar he and his father had sanded together by hand. The sealant he’d finished himself.
“I won’t let you turn our family’s home into a temple to your vanity.”
Will set the nearly empty bottle down with a clunk. “It’s your pride that needs minding, brother. Not mine.”
It drove Lachlan a little bit mad that Will wouldn’t be baited to anger. His brother was always, infuriatingly, unbothered. Lachlan Scott was bothered by many, many things.
He snatched the bottle from under Will’s resting hand and took a swig. “What are you really doing here, William?”
“I heard there’s a wedding.”
Whisky burned Lachlan’s nostrils as he coughed. “You’re invited?”
“Of course.” Will shrugged, kicking off his shoes right there behind the bar. “I didn’t break her heart.”
“Ha ha.”
“I was worried about you, brother. Watching the ex–love of your life—who’s way more fit than you are, by the way—marry someone else.
I thought I might have to fly out a girl from LA to take your mind off it.
” Will smirked at the way Lachlan’s lip curled in disgust. “But you seem to have found quite the beauty.”
“Shut up about her,” Lachlan snapped. He didn’t care that he sounded like a teenager.
“Oooh.” Will wiggled his eyebrows. “Sore spot?”
“Fuck off, William.”
Will sat at the bar like a patron while Lachlan poured himself another dram. “Mo’s niece? Isn’t that like . . . incest?”
“William, I mean it. You’re here for the wedding, fine. You’ll be gone by Monday. I won’t allow you to mess with Deli. She’s not a pawn in”—he gestured between the two of them—“whatever this is. It needs to stay between us. Leave her alone.”
Will looked him up and down. “Whatever you say.”
This wasn’t how the night was supposed to end. There were things Lachlan needed to say, needed to do—there was a way he needed to finish what he’d started.
What had she asked? He’d been distracted. Did she think he was ashamed of her?
Lachlan felt the acid sting of knowing something was going wrong but not knowing what in his throat.
Will rapped his knuckles on the bar.
“So, you got an air mattress, or do you fancy a wee cuddle?”