Page 3 of Sealing the Deal

“That’s brutal,” I say, filing the details away for later.

“Welcome to small business ownership.” She opens the register and pushes a crumpled fifty toward me.

I start to shake my head, already stepping back, but Flic moves the bill closer. “You earned it. I insist.” There’s something in her tone that dares me to argue.

I hide my reluctance and murmur my thanks, reaching out to take the money. Our fingers brush and she looks up, meeting my gaze. She breaks the moment first, already turning away, like maybe the little flash of something I thought I felt was really nothing at all.

I tuck the bill into my pocket, knowing full well this moment is going to come back and bite me in the ass. “Guess this makes me officially employed.”

“Don’t get excited. You’re not on the payroll.”

I grin. “Is that your way of telling me I suck at bartending?”

She gives a quiet laugh. “Yes. But you’re a quick learner, and maybe I needed help. Even terrible help. Thank you.”

“And I was just about to offer to stay and clear up.”

She surveys the bar. “That’s a tomorrow-me problem. Or a later-today-me problem.” She cringes as she glances at her watch. “First, I gotta shove the rest of these party animals out the door.”

“Sullivan?” she yells over the top of a group of fans in glittery pink cowboy hats. “Kill the jukebox for me.”

I look across to where a tank of a man with dark hair is standing with his arm slung around a petite brown-haired woman. His face breaks into a wide grin as he gives a thumbs up. A minute later, the music stops and there’s a collective groan from the dance floor.

“Time to go sleep off your hangovers,” Flic yells, wiping a loose strand of blonde hair out of her face and smiling despite the bone-tired exhaustion she’s obviously feeling. “You too, Rookie,” she adds, nodding to the door.

I give a wave, starting to move away as the tank of a man steps up to Flic. She called him Sullivan, which makes him one of the three famous NFL Sullivan brothers, two of whom still play for the Stormhawks.

“Thanks, Jake,” Flic says.

“Anytime,” he replies as I clock the name. Jake Sullivan. The middle Sullivan brother and current Stormhawks tight end—the best they’ve ever had, according to Donny. “Still on for tomorrow? Pick you up at ten?”

“Great. I’ll be here. I should be done cleaning by then,” she replies, eyes scanning the bar once more.

I follow her gaze to the wreckage of empties and cowboy hats and drunk fans who would burn this city to the ground for their team. Then I throw a final glance back at Flic before heading out into the ice-cold January night. This isn’t going to be easy. But if I have a chance in hell of getting the Stormhawks on my side, I’m exactly where I need to be. Flic doesn’t know it yet, but she’s the key. She’ll almost definitely hate my guts when she finds out who I am.

But I’ll deal with that later.

TWO

FLIC

I take a long gulp of syrup-laced latte—because what can’t be fixed with caffeine and sugar?—and let my gaze sweep across the bar. It looks like a wedding reception and a rodeo went twelve rounds and both lost. Beer rings stain every table, streamers stick to the floor and hang from barstools, and one pink glittery cowboy hat sits abandoned on the dance floor. I’m eighty percent sure it belongs to Jake.

My feet ache and my eyes sting with tiredness, but I need to get started on cleaning. Jake and his wife, Harper, will be here at ten to give me a ride to Oakwood Ranch to see my favorite people in the world. And celebrate the Stormhawks snatching the third wildcard playoff place and their first shot at the Super Bowl in a few years. I want The Hay Barn back to normal and ready for when I open again in a couple of days.

These are the times I wish I’d kept the cleaning team on the books. But after my landlord hiked the rent on the building twice last year, I let them go, along with my regular bar staff. It’s not just me who’s suffering. The laundromat, pawn shop, hair salon, and attorney practice that specializes in helping women who’ve suffered domestic abuse are all struggling with the rising rents. Even with the reductions in staff, I’m barely scraping by from one month to the next.

I open the cleaning cupboard and grab the broom, because wishing the rent was lower, wishing I had cleaners, wishing I was still in bed after last night’s celebration, isn’t going to get this place clean.

Before I can start, my phone buzzes from the back pocket of my jeans and I’m already smiling as I see my best friend’s name.

IZZY: Who was the hot guy Harper saw behind the bar last night?

FLIC: Didn’t get his name. He jumped in to help out. Crazy night!

IZZY: He’s probably already moved states if you gave him your usual Flic charm.

FLIC: Says the woman with the pitchfork.