Page 21 of Sealing the Deal

FLIC: Contract signed. You can post your plea to the fans now.

JAKE: On it!

CHASE: You got this, Flic!

JAKE: And we’ve got your back.

The cold seeps through my clothes the second I hit the sidewalk, my leather jacket doing nothing to protect me. But it felt like the kind of jacket you wear to confront a man like Grayson, so I don’t mind the chill.

Twenty minutes later I’m back in my apartment, turning on lamps and string lights and trying to ward off the pang of loneliness that hits me sometimes when I first step into my empty apartment. Always empty. But I’m not making the same mistake my mom made, trying to juggle a bar, a man, and a family until the guilt cracks everything in half. One passion. One focus. That’s all I have room for. And that focus is my bar. Just like Mom, until she left.

Truth is, I wouldn’t mind a date now and then. A flirtation. Hell, even a good hook-up would be nice. It’s been longer than I care to admit since I’ve had a man’s hands on my body, lips against my neck, breath warm against my skin. But somewhere along the line I must’ve put up an invisible neon sign over my head reading “Don’t even try,” because aside from the drunken passes at The Hay Barn, men don’t ask me out anymore.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the contract Grayson had ready for me like he’d read my mind. I smooth the folded edges with my thumb before tucking it safely into a drawer. Four weeks and I’ll own the deeds to the building. The Hay Barn will finally, truly, be mine. Grayson thinks he’s so clever. Sitting there in his penthouse suite, with that smile and that teasing glint in his eyes. I swear he’s trying to piss me off.

I kick off my boots, letting them thud against the floor, and pad across my apartment toward the bed to grab my pajamas. My little studio isn’t much. One room with a bed in one corner, then a sofa with Mom’s old throw over the back, and a TV, and a tiny kitchen with a fridge, oven, sink, and four cupboards. I could afford something bigger farther out of the city, but I like how close I am to the bar and how quickly I can go from locking up to being in my bed. Besides, what it lacks in size it makes up for in coziness.

Plants cover every available surface—window ledges, shelves, the top of the fridge. I brush my fingers lightly across a few leaves as I pass, checking for dryness, letting the familiar ritual ease my annoyance.

My gaze shifts to the wall of photos. My whole life in mismatched frames. Mom behind the bar twenty-something years ago, smile bright, one hand on a beer tap, the other holding me as a toddler on her hip. She’s happy in Florida now. She plays couples pickleball and helps Randy wrangle his grandkids. She loves me, I know that. She calls, she texts, she sends pictures of palm trees and ugly sandals.

Only sometimes do I let my thoughts stray to the quiet ache tucked somewhere deep inside me. Because the bar was everything to her. She sacrificed time with me growing up to keep it running when Dad became a burden instead of a partner. I always believed she loved The Hay Barn the way I do. But she met Randy and left for Florida so quickly there was barely time for proper goodbyes. Like the bar had never really mattered at all. If she could walk away that easily, then why had she given up so much for it? Why miss my birthdays and school plays and lazy weekends just to keep the place alive for all those years?

I shake off the thought before it can settle too deeply and make a mental note to call her this weekend. Say hi. Hear her laugh. Maybe her leaving would’ve hit harder if I hadn’t had the Sullivans and Oakwood Ranch and Mama looking out for me. But I did.

I’ve never needed a big world to feel steady. Just my small one. The few people I trust. People who don’t walk away.

And I’m not someone to hold a grudge. Mom’s happy. I’m happy. That’s what matters.

My eyes drift to the other frames. One of me at twenty-two, standing outside The Hay Barn doors, smiling nervously while Mama took the picture the day I signed the lease. Photos of the Sullivans and Oakwood Ranch fill the wall. Snowy Christmases and summers by the lake. Selfies with Izzy and Mad. My people. My home. My life.

I stare at the photo wall a moment longer before grabbing my phone and scrolling through my contacts until I find the name I’m looking for. Paul used to work behind the bar with me years back. He was one of my best bartenders, until he left to run his own bar in the finance district, serving overpriced cocktails to the afterwork crowd. I heard a few months ago he’d sold the bar for a tidy profit and was taking some time off while looking for another bar space.

A knotty feeling twists in my stomach as I press call. I’m not sure if the unease comes from asking for help, or the fact I have to trust someone else with my bar for game days and any time Grayson asks me to for the next four weeks. Both, I think. But it will be worth it.

Paul answers after the third ring. “Flic? It’s been a while. How are you?”

“I’m good. Congratulations on selling your bar.”

He sighs. “Thanks. I miss it, you know?”

“I do know, in fact, that’s why I’m calling. Look, it’s a long story, but can you cover The Hay Barn for the next four weeks? It won’t be all the time, but it will be during the Stormhawks games and maybe a few other times.”

“You leaving the bar on game days? This is serious.”

“If you can’t, just say, and⁠—”

“I’m teasing,” he says quickly. “Yeah, of course I’ll cover you. It will be good to get back behind the taps.”

Relief sweeps through me. “Thanks.”

We make plans for him to arrive early on Saturday to collect a set of keys and see the changes I’ve made since he last worked behind my bar. Then we say goodbye and I toss my phone onto the couch before curling up beside it. I pull Mom’s old throw blanket over my legs and close my eyes for a moment.

And immediately—annoyingly—Grayson’s face flashes behind my eyelids. That stupid grin. Those stupid eyes. The way his stupidly expensive shirt clung to his biceps, and how I’d noticed. He probably has a personal trainer named Candy who wears skintight red Lycra and praises his form while stretching him out.

The thought pisses me off all over again. At him. Not at the imaginary Candy. That would imply jealousy. And I could never be that with Grayson. He might be good-looking, but his personality is ninety percent ego, ten percent asshole, and that’s not my type. I might have agreed to help the arrogant billionaire clean up his mess. But I’m not going to enjoy a single damn second of it.

NINE