Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
James
I’m just about to lift my hand off the rook when a small and slightly smug voice says, “Are you sure you want to move your rook there?”
My hand stills on the wooden piece, one I carved last year in between building benches and tables. I was sure about my next move. But one glance at Jo, who is unable to hide her smile, has me second-guessing.
You’d think mind games in chess wouldn’t be something I’d need to worry about with a five-year-old.
But Jo is anything but a typical five-year-old.
I’m not sure if it’s because she started reading at three or because she spent more time around adults than kids or just some genetic windfall, but Jo is brilliant, perceptive, and speaks like she’s already got a college degree.
She’s also killing me in chess, a game I taught her two months ago.
I slide the rook back and sigh, examining the board again. I’m pretty sure Jo is visualizing her next game, the one after she beats me in this one.
“This does not bode well for you, son,” Tank says, then continues pulling chips out of his poker case. I can hear him counting under his breath.
While Jo has been schooling me in chess, Tank has been setting up for a Graham family poker night.
It’s the first one hosted here in Sheet Cake rather than the house in Austin.
The thought has my gut churning. It shouldn’t be a big deal—it’s about family, after all, not the game itself or its location.
Still. I don’t like change. Right now, my life is pretty much ALL change.
When Tank announced he bought a whole town—a pretty dead one at that—we all fought him on it.
I questioned if he still had his faculties.
But he does, and this is really happening.
Pat was the first to get on board, solely because Lindy is here.
Well, Lindy and Jo, who I’ll admit has softened me toward the idea of Sheet Cake.
I’m not sure what tipped me over the edge to decide that yes, this is where I want Dark Horse’s physical location to be.
I went from looking for just a brewing space in Austin to something ten times the size of what I was thinking along with a tasting room—essentially running a public bar.
It’s beyond the scope of what I envisioned, but now I’m all in.
Or … I’m getting there. Even with as real as things got with the contractor earlier in the week, part of me is still in some kind of denial.
My living situation is a great example. I’ve been crashing here, in the guest room of Tank’s newly renovated loft, and currently, I’m staying across the street at Pat’s almost identical loft while he and Lindy are gone.
A third loft is almost done, and Tank has offered it to me, but I’ve had quite enough family togetherness.
No way am I living on the same street as the two of them.
I want a house. Maybe some land. A place with room for all my woodworking tools, currently taking up residence in Tank’s Austin garage while my house is being leased out. I need space to move my small brewing system so I can continue recipe development in small batches.
And THAT feels like too big of a commitment. It’s a period at the end of the sentence. Once I invest what little cash I have left in Sheet Cake real estate, it will be official.
For whatever reason, next to buying a house, having poker night here makes Sheet Cake feel very, very permanent.
“You’re not going easy on him, are you, Jo?” Tank asks.
She giggles. “Not too easy.”
I shake my head. Three more moves and she has me in checkmate. If that’s not too easy , I’d hate to see her at full speed. This kid has me wrapped around her finger. I know it. She knows it. Probably the whole town of Sheet Cake knows it and is posting about it on Neighborly. Whatever.
“Good game,” I tell her, shaking her tiny hand.
“Excellent match,” Jo responds with a wide grin, her dimples flashing. “Now, as for my prize …”
“Close your eyes, little one.” I dip my hand in my front shirt pocket, pulling out two things I hid there earlier. Like I said—wrapped around her finger. I put one in each hand, then hold out my two closed fists. “Right or left?”
Jo chews on the end of her braid, her eyes darting back and forth between my hands. “I cannot choose the cup in front of me…”
I laugh. “Have you been watching The Princess Bride ?”
“Tank watched with me.”
“And now that’s all she wants to watch,” Tank says, chuckling.
“Could be worse.” I remember a time when for a week straight, my brothers and I watched The Incredibles twice a day. Tank finally banned it after we kept yelling, “Where is my super suit?” any time one of us couldn’t find a shoe or jersey or favorite pair of jeans.
Jo taps my left hand. I turn it over, slowly opening my palm to reveal a ring pop.
Her eyes light up. I tear open the package and hand it over.
Only when she’s got it neatly fitted on her finger do I give her what’s in my other hand—a mini package of Harry Potter jellybeans. She squeals at that one.
“Thanks, Uncle James.” Jo throws her arms around my neck, scattering the chess pieces. “Oops!”
“James will clean up, Jojo.” Tank tugs her braid. “Why don’t you grab your bags? Mari should be here any minute to pick you up.”
“Are you sure you won’t teach me to play poker?” Jo sticks out her lower lip, and Tank laughs.
“You’d wipe the table with us. Maybe when you’re sixteen,” I tell her, kneeling to pick up the pieces.
“Thirteen,” she counters.
“Eighteen,” Tank says firmly, raising a brow. I’m glad one of us has backbone. Even if I know he’ll cave. He taught us all the year after Mom died. We played for candy, not money, but still.
One rogue knight is halfway across the living room, but I manage to find them all and put the pieces back on the board while Jo grabs her bags. I glance at the folding table Tank set up for the game, then frown.
“Did you invite extra people?”
Dad shrugs. “With Pat gone, we had space. You know our table is always open.”
Maybe our table has always been open, technically speaking, but the last new player we added was Chase, Harper’s husband, almost seven years ago.
He was my sister’s best friend for years before they finally admitted they were in love—something we could have told them long ago.
Just because that turned out well doesn’t mean I want to welcome a bunch of new people.
I walk to the kitchen and grab a glass of water. It does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, the swirling in my gut, and the heat spreading over my skin.
Who else has Tank invited? The only person I can think of is Chevy, but I counted three extra stacks of chips at the table. I set down my empty glass before it cracks in my fist. Because what if he invited Winnie?
You can handle change. You’re thirty now. A whole new decade. Time to chill, man. If Winnie’s here, just be your normal brooding self. It will be fine.
My mental pep talks suck. I need to look into training my inner monologue to be better.
But I’m hanging by a thread here, frayed and thin.
I can trace it back to my first day as Winnie’s boss.
Or maybe it was the workday, trying to keep my eyes from straying to her tattoos and lean muscles.
It could have been dinner with Chevy, where he told me Winnie is single AND put the idea of dating her in my head.
My fingers go down to my pocket, where I’m still carrying the seed she gave me. The thing is probably going to sprout if I don’t figure out what to do with it.
I have just as little idea what to do with Winnie.
I smile, remembering the high point of my day—no, my WEEK—when I walked in on Winnie facing off with a gray striped cat. With a cat carrier in hand, she crouched in front of the thing, which was bigger than her head, tail swishing and ready to attack.
“Be careful,” I told her, keeping a smart distance.
“It’s okay,” Winnie said. “We’ve come to an understanding. He’s going to go into the carrier like a good kitty. Aren’t you, good kitty?”
The cat hissed. Winnie jumped forward, swinging the carrier like a baseball bat. And the cat used Winnie’s shoulder as a springboard, leaping away into the shadows while Winnie fell back on her butt.
“It’s not funny,” she told me, glaring. I hadn’t even realized I was laughing and did my best to stop immediately. Especially when she said, “Two words, boss: workman’s comp.”
Barely holding it together, I left the room, calling, “Four words: employee of the month.”
Yes. I laughed, and then I made a joke . At this rate, I’m going to be smiling openly and hugging strangers by the end of the week. I definitely need to minimize my exposure to Winnie.
I’m still worrying about the guest list when Mari arrives to pick up Jo, followed by Big Mo, carrying a six-pack of sodas.
Collin, Harper, and Chase show up moments later with their dogs in tow.
The noise in the loft increases tenfold, making the pressure in my head increase too.
Stormy makes a beeline straight for Jo, covering her face in slobbery kisses.
Brutus, the older boxer, joins me in the kitchen.
He gives me a sniff, an understanding look, and then sits right next to me like he’s my emotional support dog, picking up on my stress levels.
“I know, right? It’s a lot.” I give him a good scratch behind the ears, observing all the hugs and greetings from a nice, safe distance. I swear, I can hear how much quieter it is without Pat.
Harper joins me in the kitchen, giving my shoulder a nudge. “Hey, biggest brother. How’s life?”
“Life is life. Are you playing tonight?” I ask Harper, already knowing her answer.
She makes a face. “I brought a book. Poker doesn’t interest me.” She pauses. “It’s weird being here rather than home.”
“Thank you! It’s totally weird.”
“It’s probably a good thing,” Harper says, and this is where we’ll disagree.