36. Oliver
Oliver
I woke the next morning to a sliver of sunshine falling directly across my eyes.
How could the sun still be shining when my world had fallen apart overnight?
I’d wanted to call her last night but knew she wouldn’t answer.
Not that I blamed her. I’d fucked up. And I never did anything half-assed.
When I screwed up, I went all in. But how the hell was I supposed to fix it?
I’d stayed up until dawn started creeping into the eastern sky, trying to figure out how I could earn her back.
First, I needed to shut Wyatt down for good. Even if Tapped moved across town and secured the other warehouse, there was no way I could be a part of it. Not now. With my visa expiring soon, I needed to fix things for Trinity while I still had the chance.
But if I walked out on Wyatt, I’d have nowhere to live until my visa was up. I couldn’t very well salvage Trinity’s business while living on the streets. Which meant I had to bite my tongue and bide my time before I could tell Wyatt to go fuck himself.
Then there was the missing inventory. I knew what she’d ordered and from where. I’d seen it in her paperwork. I’d just call the company and beg them to attempt another delivery. It couldn’t be that hard.
I dragged myself out of bed. Signs that she’d been here were everywhere.
The glass she’d drunk from sat in the sink, rimmed with a pink imprint from her lips.
Her favorite coffee mug—the black sheep one I’d shared with her the second time we met—waited next to the coffee pot for her to fill it with her special blend of brew.
I funneled my hands through my hair, wishing I’d kept my damn mouth shut the night before. I’d have to come clean with her eventually, but why couldn’t I have waited until I’d gotten Wyatt settled somewhere else first?
Shit. I hadn’t heard back from Wyatt last night about the pitch I wanted to make to the investors.
I searched for my phone and finally found it between the cushions of the couch.
Must have fallen out of my pocket last night as Trinity and I were…
no. I couldn’t let my mind go there. Not until I’d smoothed things over with her.
Ten texts from Wyatt. Three missed calls. What the hell?
I pressed the button to return the call. Wyatt answered on the first ring.
“Don’t bother packing your bag for California. They’re out.” His voice came through gruff, like he’d been yelling—or drinking—all night long.
“What do you mean? Those numbers were solid.”
“Not solid enough. Seems one of the other guys came across a more lucrative opportunity, and they’re going to pursue that venture instead.” He cleared his throat. “I’m fucked.”
I tried to come up with something—anything—to salvage the plan. “Why not use some of the seating area? If you take out the stage, you can fit a starter system. Kick off with just a few different brews and see how it goes.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Wyatt laughed.
“Get what?” It was too damn early, and I was too broken to try to follow along with any of the mind games he wanted to toss out.
“I’m out of options. The space next door is my only choice. You’re obviously not cut out to do what needs to be done, so I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
A cannonball-sized weight thudded to the bottom of my stomach. “What are you talking about? We can still figure a way out of this.”
“Too late. I’ve been more than generous with you on time. It’s not going to work out with you being involved with the bar anymore. I’m immediately terminating your employment, and I’ll need you to vacate the apartment.”
“Wait.” I couldn’t leave. Not without fixing things with Trinity. Wyatt and the bar could be damned for all I cared. But I wasn’t letting her go without a fight.
“Forty-eight hours. Just drop the key off at the bar. Sorry we couldn’t figure out a way to make this work.” The line went dead.
“Wyatt?” I paced back and forth across the small kitchen. “Damn.” I’d have to go downstairs and talk to the man face to face. All I needed was another week. If I couldn’t make things right with Trinity by then, I’d retreat home. But not so fast. Not when I still had a chance.