Chapter 2
Two
No Bodily Fluids In The Bar
Nora
With a long, dramatic sigh, I take a reluctant sip.
Bitter. But it’s caffeine, and I don’t have time to make another.
Every night, I promise myself tomorrow will be different.
I won’t forget. I’ll be organized. Efficient.
A functional adult. I take another sip. Who am I kidding?
My coffee will be cold again tomorrow. I’d be more surprised if it was warm.
Cardigan. Phone. Wallet. Keys. The frantic pat-down is muscle memory at this point. Somehow—miraculously—I make it out the door with everything. That only happens four out of seven days. Today must be special. Or I’m getting used to adulting. I laugh to myself. Special. Definitely special.
There’s a sharp nip to the mid-morning August air, courtesy of Lake Superior and its flair for the dramatic. Eighty degrees one day, fifty the next. Sometimes in a single afternoon.
Mom’s townhouse is only a few minutes away.
The entire drive, I’m very calm. Very normal.
Definitely not gripping the steering wheel at ten-and-two like I’m about to land a plane in a thunderstorm.
By the time I pull into her driveway, the tension has climbed my spine and settled into my shoulders.
The worry never fully leaves anymore—it just changes volume.
Some days, it’s background static. Other days…
it’s a full-blown alarm. I kill the engine and sit there a second longer than necessary, hands still locked around the wheel, knuckles pale. Okay. Be normal.
I never know if she’s having a good morning or if she’s teetering on the edge of a flare-up. The not knowing is the hardest part. The new medication has helped enough that I let myself hope. Just a little.
I push through the front door. “Mom?”
“In the living room,” she answers.
As I stroll from the entryway through the kitchen, I find her on the couch with her feet propped on a pillow. A half-filled-in crossword puzzle lies spread across her lap.
She taps her pen against her lip, squinting at a clue.
“Seven letters. Mythical bird.” She writes the answer without hesitation.
A stack of completed puzzle books sits on the side table beside her tea, their spines cracked from use.
She looks up at me with a smile that suggests she’s winning against something bigger than a crossword.
“I checked the mail, but it was empty.”
She snorts. “Because I already got it.”
“Oh.” I pause. “Right. That makes more sense. You must be having a good morning?”
“I am.” A small, genuine smile lights up her face. “I even made it up the stairs and back down without stopping. Too bad it can’t be like that every day.”
The knot in my shoulders loosens. “That’s good.”
Fifteen years ago, her relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis diagnosis felt manageable—flare-ups that came and went.
But two years ago, secondary progressive MS became part of the conversation, and now the losses keep stacking up.
Fumbling with her keys. Stairs. Long walks.
Her independence doesn’t vanish all at once—it erodes, one small, ordinary moment at a time.
She studies me over the rim of her reading glasses. “You look like you slept in your clothes.”
“I did not.” Her eyebrow arches higher. “Not all of them. I managed to take my jeans off,” I amend.
“Did you at least make it to your bed?”
“If bed means couch, then yes.” I flash her a cheerful smile that convinces absolutely no one.
She exhales—the long, seasoned sigh only mothers can deliver—then narrows her eyes. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
“Granola.” She stares at me. “Straight out of the bag. It paired beautifully with my cold coffee.”
“And eight hours of sleep?”
“Five is the new eight. I’m pretty sure I slept like a brick.”
She points the pen at me. “That’s not the selling point you think it is.”
Even though I’m the one who should be taking care of her, she still worries about me first. I stroll into the kitchen and restock her fridge with water from the case on the floor. “You have an appointment Thursday. I’ll drive you.”
“I know. You always do.”
After closing the door, I whirl around. “Did you go through your mail? Anything important?”
“Only if you think three credit card pre-approvals and a tree stump removal flyer are important.” She shrugs.
“The tree stumps haven’t lived their full stumpy life yet.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
I feed the junk mail through the shredder and head back into the living room. “I should get to work. I’ll text you on my break.”
She studies me as if she’s committing every detail—my posture, my energy, the way exhaustion hangs off me—to memory. “Don’t forget you matter too, Nora.”
I flash her my practiced smile. The one that says I’m fine even when I’m tapped out. “I know. I always have you to remind me.” Bending down, I press a kiss to her cheek, the faint scent of lavender lotion clinging to her skin. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.”
The second I step into Porter’s, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and immediately freeze. “Shit.”
A pharmacy reminder flashes across the screen. I knew I was forgetting something this morning. Guilt blooms hot and immediate in my chest. I shove the phone back into my pocket. Tomorrow. First thing.
After tossing my bag into my locker, I glance toward the closed office door.
Jake never shuts that door unless someone’s getting fired.
Thankfully, it’s not me on the other side.
I exhale and head for the bar. Rylee is halfway inside one of the coolers counting inventory, the cold air spilling out around her.
Lach stands at the prep station slicing lemons for drinks.
A moment later, Jake rounds the corner into the main bar, but my attention snaps to the man behind him.
Tall. Dark. Tattooed. He’s the kind of hot that should require a warning label.
He moves with a swagger dripping with confidence.
His mouth curves into a smile, but his eyes are the real problem as they land on me and linger. I just spontaneously combusted.
“Nora. This is Beckett,” Jake says, gesturing at the thirst trap beside him. “He’s filling in some shifts. You’re training him.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Lucky me. I extend my hand. He takes it. His palm is warm and firm, but my attention goes to the whiskey and oak scent that clings to him. It’s rich and a tad mysterious. Training him is definitely not going to be a hardship.
“You can call me Beck. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” The giggle escapes before I can stop it.
Jake’s gaze flicks between us and he groans. “No bodily fluids in my bar.”
“None of it.” I widen my eyes innocently. He never said anything about outside the bar. So the parking lot is fair game, right?
“All right. I’ve got paperwork,” Jake mutters.
“Aye aye, Captain.” I salute.
He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches into an almost smile before he retreats back to his office.
Beck leans in, forearms resting on the bar. “Well, Nora… teach me the ways of bartending.”
For a second, I forget how words work as I search for a way out of his hypnotic deep, brown eyes.
“Oh—right. Bartending.” I clear my throat and slide past him, suddenly hyperaware of my limbs in close proximity to his.
I give him the quick tour of the bar, the taps, the glassware, the storage room, and the POS system.
Once Rylee finishes inventory, I send Beck to stock the cooler.
Mostly so I can watch his muscles flex as he lifts cases of beer.
Lach nudges my side. “You really want to break Jake’s rule, don’t you?”
“What?” My cheeks ignite. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Beck. The very obvious dirty thoughts running through your mind.”
I hate that he’s absolutely right. But also, I won’t admit it. “There are no dirty thoughts.”
He laughs. “What if I told you he plays hockey?”
I freeze. Slowly turn. “Wait—what? Like… beer league hockey?”
Lach grins. “Like NHL. Retired now. But he was the goalie for the Mavericks.”
Well, that explains… a lot. The way Beck takes up space isn’t arrogance, it’s second nature.
Like his body still remembers arenas, bright lights, and crowds chanting his name, even as he stands in front of a bar cooler holding a case of domestic beer.
His shirt stretches across his back, his forearm flexing in a way that suggests he could easily carry heavy things, kegs, furniture…
me. I swallow. Hard. Suddenly, the room grows smaller.
Warmer. My pulse decides to audition for a drumline in my throat.
Cool. Love that for me. Jake’s rule suddenly feels less policy and more personal dare.
“So…” I drift toward the cooler. “You used to play professional hockey, and now you’re in Harbor Highlands serving drinks. What happened from A to B?”
“Well,” he says easily, sliding a six-pack into place, “I played ten years in the NHL. Got injured. Retired. So I pulled out a map and threw a dart. This is where it landed.”
I squint. “Really?”
He grins. “No. I’ve known Jake most of my life.”
“Wait. How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“And you came here because of Jake?”
“He was friends with my older brother. The three of us were always close. Jake likes it here, so I figured it couldn’t be that bad.”
“Jake has literally never lived anywhere else,” I point out.
He laughs. “Yeah… but he stayed for a reason. Plus, there are rumors circulating that the squirt hockey team could use a new coach.”
Before I can respond, Beck steps in and takes over a cluster of customers at the far end of the bar.
The noise level drops around me, giving me a moment to breathe.
I lean back against the bar, exhale for the first time all night, and pull out my phone.
The app opens instantly—the one that’s been quietly hijacking my sanity for the past twelve months.
The OneDate screen loads—and there it is.
The same stubborn line of broken code. The harsh reminder that everything I’ve built is one bug away from collapsing.
Tension coils low in my stomach. If this app fails, it’s not only a bad business idea, it’s all the hours I coded while Mom slept, the freelance jobs I turned down, the savings I burned through convincing myself I could still be more than just the girl who came home to take care of her mother.
This app is supposed to be what saves us.
“What are you working on?” Beck’s voice drifts up behind me, and I nearly launch out of my skin.
I fumble with the lock screen button. “Oh—um. My app. OneDate.”
He leans closer anyway, peering over my shoulder. “Is that one of those hookup apps?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s… different.”
His brow lifts. “Different how?”
“It’s for people who just need a date. Weddings. Family functions. Work events. No pressure. No expectations. No pretending you’re looking for forever when all you really need is one evening of peace.”
He nods along. “So… temporary relief from awkwardness.”
“Exactly. I got the idea when another bartender, Dessa, wanted a date for a wedding but couldn’t find anyone last minute, then it turned into a side project, but now it’s something I can’t seem to let go of.”
He smiles. “Sounds like a good idea. There’s been a time or two I could’ve used that.”
“Same. But right now, I’m having issues with one page. And if it doesn’t work, all the hours I’ve put into it will be a waste, and I might as well give up.”
“You built all that yourself?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “In between hospital visits with my mom and bartending shifts.”
He nods once. “That’s… impressive.”
I swallow. The praise hits deeper than I expect. “Thanks. But it might not be so impressive if I can’t fix it. You wouldn’t know coding by chance, would you?”
A low chuckle rumbles out of him. “My skill set begins and ends with stopping flying pucks and occasionally looking good while lifting heavy things.” He winks.
Heat climbs into my cheeks. Apparently, I wasn’t so discreet about my admiring.
Then his expression shifts, curiosity replacing the teasing. “So why are you here instead of somewhere making millions in tech?”
The truth presses behind my ribs. “I was. Once. Then my mom got sick. I moved back to Harbor Highlands to help her. Only child. Kind of nonnegotiable.”
“I’m sure she appreciates it.”
“She does.” My voice softens. “She’s my best friend, so it wasn’t a hard choice. Just… unexpected.” I glance down at my phone. “Ideally, this app helps with her medical bills. If not, I’ll just pick up more bartending shifts.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You don’t seem like the type to give up when things get tough.”
I look down at the blank screen. “Yeah,” I whisper. But when the weight of the world is sitting on your shoulders, you kind of want to.