CHAPTER 3 #2
And I thought about myself. My apartment building, sold so fast I'd barely had time to process it.
My job at the hospital, twelve-hour shifts that left me hollowed out and empty.
The way I'd accepted Cole's offer of the panic room without hesitation, because the alternative—asking my coworkers for a couch to crash on, admitting I needed help—had felt impossible.
We'd rather drown than ask for a life preserver.
"Order up," the cook called, sliding three styrofoam containers across the counter.
By the time I got back to the bar, the brothers had moved to the front booth.
Marcus was hunched over a mug of coffee, and Cole was sitting across from him, his posture relaxed but watchful.
The tension in the air had shifted—still present, but less sharp, like a blade that had been partially sheathed.
"Pancakes," I announced, setting the containers on the table. "Eggs, over easy. Hash browns because they came with the combo. Coffee in the thermos."
Marcus stared at the spread like he'd never seen food before. "You didn't have to do this."
"I know. Eat."
He ate. The way he shoveled in the first few bites told me he hadn't been lying about the gas station chips—this was a man who hadn't had a real meal in days.
Cole watched him, and something in his expression made my chest ache.
It was the look of someone who'd been taking care of other people for so long that he'd forgotten how to stop.
I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and slid into the booth next to Cole. "Did you two make any progress while I was gone?"
"Define progress," Cole said.
"He told me I'm an idiot."
"I said you make bad choices. There's a difference."
"He also said he's not paying off my debt this time."
I glanced at Cole. "You're not?"
"No. I'm not." He said it firmly, but I could see how much it cost him. "Marcus needs to learn how to fix his own problems. If I keep bailing him out, he'll never stop making the same mistakes."
"That's fair," I said.
"Of course you think it's fair. You're the one who told me I was enabling." But there was no heat in his voice—just exhaustion, and underneath it, something that might have been relief.
Marcus pushed his empty plate aside. "So what do I do? Go back to Philly and let them break my legs?"
"You stay here. You work. You pay it off legitimately.
" Cole leaned back in the booth, his arm brushing against mine.
"I need help with the bar. The walk-in cooler needs repairs, the basement has water damage from the storm last spring, and there's a hundred things on the maintenance list I haven't touched since I opened.
You used to be a contractor. You can earn your keep. "
"You're offering me a job?"
"I'm offering you a chance to dig yourself out. What you do with it is up to you."
Marcus stared at his brother for a long moment. Then he laughed—a short, disbelieving sound that was halfway to a sob. "You're serious."
"I'm always serious."
"No, you're a pain in the ass who's been cleaning up my messes since we were kids. And now you're telling me you're done?"
"I'm telling you I trust you to handle it yourself." Cole's hand found mine under the table and squeezed once. "There's a difference."
The morning shifted after that. Marcus took a shower in the apartment above the locksmith's shop—the spare room Cole had mentioned, which turned out to be a studio with a hot plate and a futon and a window that overlooked the alley.
He came back down looking more human, his hair damp and his clothes changed, and Cole put him to work hauling boxes from the storage basement.
I retreated to the panic room to change for my shift.
Scrubs, sensible sneakers, my hair pulled back in a ponytail that was more functional than flattering.
The mirror above the sink showed me a face that looked different from the one I'd seen yesterday—softer around the eyes, maybe, or just less tired.
The fern on the nightstand had unfurled a new frond overnight.
"You're thriving," I told it. "Good for you."
My phone buzzed. A text from the hospital—a reminder about the mandatory staff meeting at noon, the one about the new charting system that everyone was dreading. I pocketed the phone and headed back upstairs.
Cole was behind the bar, wiping down the same section of walnut he'd been obsessing over last night. The surface gleamed, sanitized and pristine, and the memory of what we'd done on it made heat rise in my cheeks.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Work reminder. I should probably head out soon."
"The shift doesn't start until noon."
"Staff meeting. Mandatory." I leaned against the bar, close enough to smell the coffee on his breath and the faint cedar scent of his soap. "Where's Marcus?"
"Basement. I wasn't kidding about the water damage—there's a whole section of drywall that needs replacing. He's taking measurements." Cole set down his rag. "Thank you. For the breakfast thing."
"He needed to eat."
"He needed someone to be kind to him without expecting anything in return. You did that." He reached across the bar and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "It means more than you know."
"Cole—"
"Kiss me before you go."
I did. Over the bar, across the polished walnut that had witnessed far too much of our personal lives in the last twelve hours. His lips were warm, his hand cupping the back of my neck with that careful tenderness that made my knees weak.
When I pulled back, his eyes were darker than usual, and I knew he was thinking about last night. The bartop. The pendant lights. The way I'd come apart under his mouth.
"Tonight," he said. "After your shift. I want to try something."
"Another experiment?"
"Something like that." He kissed me again, lighter this time. "Go. Don't be late for your meeting."
The hospital was its usual controlled chaos.
The mandatory meeting ran long, as mandatory meetings always do, and by the time I finally made it to the ER floor, we were short-staffed and the waiting room was overflowing.
A construction accident. A pediatric asthma case.
An elderly woman who'd fallen and broken her hip and was waiting for ortho to clear a bed.
I threw myself into the work the way I always did—triage, vitals, the steady rhythm of tasks that kept my hands busy and my mind occupied.
But every time there was a lull, my thoughts drifted back to the bar.
To Cole. To Marcus, and the bruise on his face, and the fifteen thousand dollars he owed to men who'd apparently hit hard enough to leave marks.
At six o'clock, my shift ended. I changed out of my scrubs and into jeans and a sweater, and I took the bus back to the speakeasy instead of driving. The evening air was crisp, the last light fading from the sky, and the bar's alley entrance looked different now that I knew the code.
The magnetic lock clicked open. I stepped inside.
Marcus was behind the bar.
He'd found the bourbon again—a different bottle this time, one of the cheaper ones from the well—and he was pouring himself a generous measure. The bruise on his cheek had darkened further, a deep purple that looked almost black in the dim light.
"Where's Cole?" I asked.
"Supply run. Picking up something for the walk-in repair." Marcus took a sip of his bourbon and studied me over the rim of the glass. "He'll be back in an hour. Maybe two."
"Should you be drinking that?"
"Should you be living in my brother's basement?"
The question caught me off guard. "That's different."
"Is it?" He set down his glass and came around to the customer side of the bar—my side. "Cole told me about you. The accident. The apartment. How you've been working here for three months and he's been waiting the whole time."
"He told you all that?"
"He tells me a lot of things. I'm his brother.
" Marcus leaned against the bar, close enough that I could smell the bourbon on his breath and the cheap motel soap he'd used in the shower.
"The thing about Cole is, he's got a hero complex.
Always has. Firefighter, bar owner, the guy who rescues people. He can't help himself. It's who he is."
"What's your point?"
"My point is, are you sure you're in love with him, or are you just the latest person he's saved?"
The words hit harder than they should have. I felt them land in my chest like a punch, and for a moment I couldn't breathe.
"That's not fair," I managed.
"Maybe not. But it's honest." Marcus picked up his glass and took another drink. "I've seen him do this before. Girlfriends, colleagues, strangers he pulled out of burning buildings. He gets attached to people who need him, and he mistakes that for love. And then when they don't need him anymore—"
"He's not like that."
"Sure he isn't."
The back door opened. Cole stepped inside, carrying a hardware store bag and a coil of copper tubing, his jacket damp with the evening mist. He looked from me to Marcus to the bourbon in Marcus's hand, and his expression hardened.
"Already?" he said.
"It's one drink."
"It's four in the afternoon somewhere, but it's six here, and I asked you to stay sober while we figured things out."
"Figured things out." Marcus laughed. "You mean while you figured things out. You've been running my life since we were kids, Cole. Maybe I'm tired of it."
"Then leave."
"Maybe I will."
They stared at each other—the same dark hair, the same broad shoulders, the same stubborn set to their jaws. I was standing in the middle of it, caught between them, and I didn't know whose side to take.
"Both of you, stop," I said. "This isn't solving anything."
"She's right." Cole set down his bag and the copper tubing and crossed to the bar. "We're not doing this tonight. Marcus, go upstairs. Sleep it off."
"I'm not tired."
"I don't care."