Chapter 7
GILLIAN
I flipped a beer mug right-side up and filled it with ease, foam settling perfectly at the rim, though it had been several years since I’d done this with any regularity.
The Friday-night crowd at the Huckleberry Saloon hummed around me—jukebox playing low beneath the rise and fall of voices, glasses clinking, fryer hissing from the kitchen.
My hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, sweat gathering at my neck from constant motion.
“Gill! Remember when you spiked the punch at senior prom?”
I slid fresh pints across to Mark Donnelly and Tyler Walsh—football heroes turned insurance agents—and laughed. “You mean when I got blamed for what you two did? Yeah, that rings a bell.”
“We still owe you for taking that fall.” Tyler raised his glass in salute.
“I’ll add it to your tab.” I winked, already moving to the register to swipe someone else’s card. “Kitchen! Another round of wings for table six!”
The familiar rhythm of the bar settled into my bones like muscle memory awakening from a long sleep.
Tap, pour, serve. Smile, chat, move on. The motions flowed seamlessly from one to the next, an intricate dance I’d performed countless times during my teenage years.
I’d done this for years growing up, through those endless high school summers when the heat shimmered off the pavement outside and college breaks when I’d return home with stories of dorm life and final exams. Well, not the actual pulling of the alcohol back then—Granddad had been strict about that until I turned twenty-one—but the serving, the cleaning, the endless restocking of glasses and napkins.
My body remembered every movement with startling clarity.
The precise angle needed to slide a beer down the polished wood without it toppling.
The way to balance three plates along my left arm while grabbing condiments with my right.
How to lean just slightly forward when someone was trying to tell me something over the music, making them feel heard without actually having to strain to catch every word.
Even the weight of the glass mugs felt familiar in my hands, substantial and reassuring in a way that conference room coffee cups never had.
During a brief lull, I slipped into the back office, where my laptop glowed in the dim space. A contract sprawled across the screen, red-tracked changes bleeding across the contract like wounds. I scrolled through the mess, muttering under my breath. “Jesus, Harcourt, this is sloppy even for you.”
My fingers flew across the keyboard, hammering in revisions.
The irony wasn’t lost on me—that I was fixing a partner’s work instead of passing it down to an associate.
But I was the grunt, the one pulling late hours, and I was supposed to be grateful that my boss had “generously” allowed me this family emergency.
Partners didn’t care that I was almost single-handedly running a bar during the day.
They cared only that their clients got what they needed when they needed it.
And this particular partner had made it painfully clear that my “extended absence” was already pushing boundaries, despite the fact that I’d cleared the two weeks before I’d left.
“Two more days,” I’d promised on yesterday’s call. “I’ll have the contract polished and ready for signature.”
He’d sighed heavily. “The client’s already unhappy about the delay. If we lose them over this...”
The threat hung unspoken in the silence that followed, heavy with implications that made my stomach clench.
My promotion. My future. The partnership track I’d been grinding toward from the moment I’d taken my first internship.
Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d sacrificed—weekends and sleep and any semblance of a personal life—to achieve, balanced precariously on the edge of this one difficult client’s satisfaction.
I could practically hear the whispered conversations that would follow if this deal fell through.
Holliday couldn’t handle the pressure when it mattered.
Maybe she’s not partnership material after all.
The thought made my chest tight with familiar anxiety—the same crushing weight of expectation that had driven me through law school, through the bar exam, through every late night and early morning since.
I rubbed my temples with both hands, pressing hard against the tension headache that had become my constant companion these past few days. The light from my laptop screen cast everything in harsh relief, making the cramped office shrink in on itself.
I forced myself to take a steadying breath.
One problem at a time. Fix the language, satisfy the client, keep the partnership dream alive.
Everything else—the bar, the memories, the complicated feelings stirring every time I caught myself listening for a familiar voice among the crowd—would have to wait.
“Gill! We need you out here!” Jamie, our weekend cook, called from the doorway.
“Coming!” I closed the laptop, reeling from the whiplash of switching worlds yet again.
Back at the bar, I stepped seamlessly into the flow. Pour, serve, chat, repeat. The Val Kilmer “Doc Holliday” movie poster watched from the wall as I moved beneath it, feeling my grandfather’s legacy in every floorboard.
Frank Milligan slid his empty glass forward for a refill. “When’s the old man coming back?”
“Doctor says another week of rest before he can even think about light shifts.” I poured his usual draft. “So you’re stuck with me.”
“Lucky us.” Frank grinned. “Though I bet you’re counting the days till you can get back to your real job.”
The comment stung more than it should have. I forced a smile and moved to the next customer, acutely aware of the laptop waiting in the office, of deadlines looming, of the fact that I couldn’t give one hundred percent to either world right now.
Despite everything swirling through my mind, I caught myself glancing at the door throughout the night, wondering if a certain firefighter might stop by.
Each time the hinges creaked and someone new walked in, my pulse would quicken for just a moment before disappointment settled in my chest like a stone.
Each time it happened, irritation surged.
Four years. Four damn years I’d managed to build a successful life without Diego Rivera cluttering up my thoughts.
I’d graduated summa cum laude, landed a position at one of Chicago’s most prestigious firms, climbed the ladder rung by careful rung.
I’d dated other men—smart, ambitious lawyers and business executives who understood my drive and respected my goals.
I’d built something solid, something that made sense.
Four days back in Huckleberry Creek, surrounded by the familiar scent of beer and wood polish, listening to the same old jokes from the same old regulars, and I was already watching doors like some lovesick teenager waiting for her prom date to show up.
It was pathetic, and worse than that, it was dangerous.
These kinds of distractions were exactly what had nearly derailed me before.
The bar needed me present and focused. Doc needed me to keep his legacy running smoothly while he recovered. My career needed me sharp and dedicated, especially with the partnership decision looming on the horizon. If a tiny voice asked what it was I needed, I ignored it.
I didn’t have room for anything—or anyone—else. Not if I wanted to keep all the pieces of my carefully constructed life from falling apart.
“Gill! Table seven wants another pitcher!”
I jerked my head up from the laptop screen where I’d been squinting at paragraph sixteen of a liability clause. The shout yanked me back into the bar’s reality—laughter, clinking glasses, someone’s off-key singing to “Friends in Low Places” on the jukebox.
“Coming!” I slammed the laptop shut and hustled to the taps, grabbing a fresh pitcher.
As I filled it with amber liquid, my mind was still stuck on subsection C of that contract. The foam nearly overflowed before I caught myself and adjusted the angle. Jamie shot me a look.
“You with us tonight, counselor?” He slid a basket of wings onto the pass.
“Sorry. Just... multitasking.” I forced a bright smile, swiping the foam off the pitcher’s edge with a bar rag.
The next hour became a blur of motion. Between each task, my mind darted back to the half-edited contract waiting in the office. It was like trying to ride two horses going in opposite directions—I was giving just enough to both to keep moving, but not enough to make realy progress on either.
“How’s Doc doing?” Mrs. Henderson asked as I dropped off her whiskey sour.
“Ornery as ever.” I laughed. “The doctor said he needs rest, but he’s already planning his jailbreak from the couch.”
The questions came all night. Everyone in this town seemed to know about Doc’s “episode,” as they were calling it. Their concern was genuine, which made it impossible to resent the constant interruptions.
Back behind the bar, I slid a bourbon neat to Joe Ratliff, one of Doc’s oldest friends. The familiar weight of the glass in my hand grounded me for a moment.
“You look beat, kid,” Joe observed.
“I’m fine.” I flashed what I hoped was a convincing smile.
“You working yourself like your grandpa?” His eyes were knowing. “Man never did know when to take a breath.”
The comment hit harder than it should have. Was that what I was doing? Burning myself at both ends just like Doc? The irony wasn’t lost on me—trying to keep his bar running while he recovered from working too hard in the same damn place.
I couldn’t give a hundred percent to both jobs tonight. Something was going to get shorted—either the contract that could determine my future, or the bar that had shaped my past.