Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
James
I keep my eyes fixed on the lit candles on the cake in front of me as I’m serenaded by the happy birthday song. It seems to take way longer than it should. How many verses are there? Did they add another two lines of happy birthdays?
Tank may have promised to keep tonight small and low-key, but the birthday not-quite surprise party at Mari’s diner is still too much for me.
Guests include my family (minus Pat and Lindy, who are somewhere in Europe) plus a dozen or so Sheeters, as they call themselves. It’s about a dozen people too many.
Yes, I hate birthdays and parties. And sometimes people.
No, I don’t want to talk about it.
My five-year-old niece, Jo, is perched on my lap at the diner counter. I give her a quick squeeze. “Want to blow out my candles, little one?”
“I’m not sure I can,” Jo says with a tiny grin. “There are a lot .”
I find the ticklish spot on her side. “Are you saying I’m old?”
Jo giggles. “Not THAT old.”
I hear several snorts and look around to find Collin covering his mouth. Harper is biting her lip, and my dad’s booming laughter fills the diner. Chase has ducked behind my sister, probably to hide his smile. At least he still views me with a healthy dose of fear.
Chevy, who clearly doesn’t fear for his life nearly enough, laughs almost as loudly as my dad.
The deputy seems intent on inserting himself into our family.
Despite arresting all of us the night we met, he has somehow become Pat’s new best friend.
I’m sure Tank invited him to this party I didn’t want to have in the first place, but as far as I’m concerned, Chevy can go.
Did I mention he’s also Winnie’s brother?
“The place is going to go up in flames if you don’t hurry,” Collin calls, and I glare before turning back to Jo.
“Fine. I’m old,” I concede. “On three, we’ll do it together.”
I count down, then together Jo and I blow out the thirty candles.
Another decade gone. Thirty . I’m supposed to feel something, right?
I used to consider every birthday in light of how many years I’ve lived without Mom.
But once I turned twenty-seven and officially existed longer without her in my life, it got too depressing to think about.
One more reason to hate celebrating today.
“What was your wish?” Jo asks.
My mind blanks. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
She rolls her eyes and flashes her secret weapon: her single dimple. “Come on, Uncle James! I won’t tell.”
I would tell Jo. I would. But her question hits me like a gut punch, making me realize I don’t have a wish to make. Not even now that I have a moment to think about it.
The last wish I had was to go pro. And when I injured my knee in one of my last college games, instantly ending my football career, I stopped wishing for anything at all.
“He probably wished for everything to fall into place with Dark Horse,” Collin says.
It’s an easy out. Because I do want things to fall into place. But it’s not my wish, not my dream.
I nod to Jo and put a finger to my lips. “What he said. But don’t tell.”
“I promise,” she says.
Mari slides the cake down the counter for Mo to cut and serve. Someone cranks the music back up, and Tank lifts Jo from my lap, putting her on his shoulders. The man was built to be a grandpa. I’m not sure I’ve seen him this happy in years, and it fills me with a deep ache I can’t quite explain.
The tightness in my shoulders eases as people’s attention shifts away from me. Big Mo sets down a piece of cake in front of me with a smile and I’m happy for the distraction.
“Thanks,” I tell him, picking up the fork. It looks like chocolate heaven and will without a doubt be the best part of my evening until I’m alone again.
Mo walks away without saying happy birthday , like he can tell I’m already over it. Chevy plops down on the stool beside me. He’s in uniform, so I assume he’s on duty later tonight. Maybe even now—it’s not like there’s much trouble in Sheet Cake. Without being asked, Mari pours him a mug of coffee.
“Shouldn’t you be out writing speeding tickets?” I ask.
“All in due time. How'd my sister do on her first day of work?” Chevy asks, adding enough sugar in his coffee to put someone in a coma.
I didn’t see Winnie again after this morning, though the effect of our heated exchange clung to me all day like campfire smoke. I don’t have the faintest clue how to answer this question.
Chevy takes a sip of coffee, barely hiding a smile. “That bad, huh?”
“It was fine.”
Chevy chuckles, eyes shining as Mo puts a slice of cake in front of him. “Says the man with the murderous look in his eyes.”
“Are you gonna arrest me again?”
“Not for a look.” Chevy’s jovial expression turns deadly so quickly I almost choke on my bite of cake. “But if you hurt so much as one hair on her head or even her smallest feeling, it will be a different story.”
“We’ll get along.”
“Good.” Chevy’s cheerful expression returns as he takes a bite of cake. “Just don’t be surprised if she antagonizes you. She’s that way with me too. Always pushing buttons like it’s her life’s mission.”
I don’t like thinking of Winnie treating me the same way she treats her brother. Not even a little bit. And I definitely don't want to examine exactly why the idea bothers me so much.
“Winnie will do a great job as far as the work goes. She just might drive you to drink along the way. Guess it’s a good thing you own a brewery.” He chuckles. “Speaking of—need my help tomorrow? I can swing by in the afternoon. Winnie said you were clearing out the warehouse.”
Oh, did she, now?
My fists clench reflexively. I don’t know what came over me when I asked Winnie to help tomorrow. I’ve regretted it all day. And now she’s inviting other people?
“She asked you to come?” I do my best to hide the irritation in my tone but clearly don’t succeed.
Chevy laughs again. “She’ll do that too—insert herself in your life. Especially in places you don’t want her to be. Like a splinter you can’t ever dig out.” He winks. “So, tomorrow? You need a few extra hands? I really don’t mind.”
I almost tell Chevy no—that’s how much I hate accepting help, even when freely offered.
But the warehouse still has a bunch of junk I’d really like cleared out.
More hands means quicker work, even though the idea of other people traipsing through the property makes me twitchy.
I could have asked my family, but Pat’s gone, Tank is helping with Jo, and Harper, Chase, and Collin all have jobs in Austin.
Even if I were better about asking for help, it’s abundantly clear that Dark Horse’s success rests on one set of shoulders—mine.
“That’d be great.” Chevy raises an eyebrow at my tone, which admittedly doesn’t sound enthusiastic. “Thanks,” I add.
Big Mo slides a second piece of cake in front of me. I hadn’t realized I finished the first. Usually I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I’m not mad at this cake. Not at all.
“Is this a new recipe, Mo?” Chevy licks icing from the tines of his fork with a groan. “It’s delicious. And a little spicy.”
“I’m working on variations for the festival. This is chocolate cayenne with a milk stout chocolate ganache,” Big Mo says, his smile bright in contrast to his long, dark beard. “In honor of our brewmaster here.”
I lift my eyebrows. “That’s—wow.” That’s more trouble than anyone should go to for me. Especially a man I hardly know. Mo and I have only had brief conversations, usually when I’m picking up food from the diner. “Thanks. It’s the best cake I’ve eaten.”
“I hope so. I used your milk stout.” Mo’s grin widens, and I rear back in surprise at his thoughtfulness.
My beer is only sold on tap at a few bars in Austin, which means it’s not easy to come by.
I’d be willing to bet Tank brought him some from my private collection.
I started brewing a few years ago out of a shed at the back of Tank’s property.
Pat jokingly calls it my she shed, and unfortunately, that name stuck—with my family anyway. To me, it’s my me shed.
The fifteen-gallon brewing system I purchased does everything within one tank from the mash to the fermentation, saving space and making the process pretty simple.
Because I don’t have a system for bottling, almost everything goes straight into kegs.
Bottles are done by hand and reserved for my family. And now, Big Mo.
Honestly, with icing this good, I’d happily supply him with more.
I take another bite, trying to pick up on the flavor— my flavor—I should have recognized. There it is. Subtle, but present.
“What’s milk stout?” Jo asks, climbing up on the stool next to me. Chevy reaches around my back to give her a fist bump.
“Nothing you’ll like yet,” Big Mo says. “But I’ve got a special one just for you.” He hands her a cupcake with white icing and sprinkles.
“Funfetti!” she says and quickly goes silent as she takes a big bite, icing going everywhere. Jo is so well-spoken and so brilliant that she usually seems far older than her age. And then there are times like this, where she is absolutely a typical five-year-old, stuffing a cupcake in her face.
Collin appears behind me, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Tell us when you want to open presents, birthday boy.”
“I don’t need presents.”
Collin rolls his eyes. “Birthday presents are not about need . Come on—can’t you put the grouch back in his trash can for just one night?”
I turn to snap at him, but as the bells over the door chime and Winnie strides into the diner, I forget my response. I forget Collin exists altogether.
What’s she doing here? And does she have … a gift?
Her eyes meet mine, just before Tank reaches her and wraps her in a hug.
Now my dad is on hugging terms with Winnie? Her brother was right—she really is a splinter.
Chevy stands and stretches, then gives me a hearty slap on the back. “Happy birthday, man. I better get back out there. See you tomorrow at the warehouse.”