Page 31 of Sealing the Deal

“I’m not trying to fix everything,” I say. “Just this.”

“You tripped at the first hurdle yesterday.”

“Your point?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Are you going to lie down or get back up?”

I don’t answer.

“You think Jake Sullivan walks off the field after one bad play?” he presses.

I scrub a hand over my face. “Flic’s too stubborn. She doesn’t trust anyone with her bar and she sure as hell doesn’t trust me.”

Stubborn doesn’t even begin to cover it. She’s fierce. One wrong step and she’ll bite. Something I learned firsthand yesterday.

“And that’s why you wanted her help,” Donny replies without hesitation. “Flic has influence because she doesn’t bend. She can’t be bought.”

I look at him sharply. “You think I should⁠—”

“Get back up and find another way?” he interrupts. “Yes.” He claps me on the shoulder. “But right now, Mom’s making pancakes and wants you to drop in and say hi.”

The normalcy of it almost makes me laugh.

We hit the locker room and, under the spray of hot water from the shower, I realize Donny is right. I’m not someone who gives up easily. I’ve been looking for leverage and deals and angles. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I need to stop trying to corner Flic and start trying to understand her.

I don’t know if she’ll agree. I don’t know if she’ll even let me in her bar again. But I have an idea. I dress quickly, grab my phone from my bag, and start making calls.

THIRTEEN

FLIC

I scrub at a non-existent stain on the floor by the bar like I’m trying to erase my bad mood. Maybe I am. And the real kicker is that I don’t have a good reason to be this irritated. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m at The Hay Barn with sunlight filtering through the window, catching on the reflection of the bar I’ve just spent the last half an hour polishing. I usually love days like this. Putting The Hay Barn back together again after a busy weekend. Feeling the place breathe and settle around me as I clean and restock the fridge and the shelves, the radio humming in the background.

But no, my thoughts are as furious as the blizzard that blew through Denver yesterday—eight inches of snow in under six hours, enough to send the plows out before dawn to dig half the city free.

I should be happy. Everything is exactly the same as it was before Grayson Ashborne walked into my life with his irritating smile, like he knows what buttons to press to wind me up and presses them anyway. The only difference now is that, for a few months at least, my rent is lower, giving me a little room to breathe easier.

It should feel like a win. Instead, every time I wipe down a counter or shove a stool back into place, all I can think about is how close I came to owning this bar outright. I just had to do my part in Grayson’s deals for four weeks. But after Paul bailed, there’s no way I can leave The Hay Barn again.

And then there’s the other reason I’m in a bad mood. How much I enjoyed the trip to Buffalo. It wasn’t the private jet or Grayson. It was watching the Stormhawks. Actually watching them, from a skybox instead of on the TV here. Actually being present at a game instead of running trays in and out of the kitchen, not having to rewatch plays at 1 a.m. because I’d missed them while serving drinks.

I hadn’t realized how much of the buzz and game play I’d been missing in running my bar. I sigh, berating myself. I need to pull my shit together and stop fixating on something I never had in the first place. This bar runs because you run it. And you don’t have time to play tour guide to the likes of Grayson Ashborne, especially when he doesn’t even listen to you.

This is where I belong.

I haven’t spoken to Grayson since his driver dropped me here after our flight landed on Saturday night. I climbed out of the car and told him he’d need to find someone else to help him. Then I hurried into my bar, almost crying with relief that it was still intact, and a frazzled Mia was holding everything together for me.

I drag the last stool down from the table just as the front door swings open and a familiar voice calls out: “Lower your staple gun. I know you’re closed. I come in peace.”

I don’t bother hiding my scowl as I turn to see Grayson standing just inside the doorway, dressed in one of his immaculate suits again. He looks every bit the businessman everyone hates, but damn, it’s hard to ignore how well he wears that suit.

“What do you want, Ashborne?”

Before he can answer, a woman steps in behind him. She’s a tall brunette, wearing worn boots and a leather vest under a leather jacket. Her hair is tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She looks like the kind of woman who could arm wrestle half my regulars and win. I’m instantly annoyed. What the hell is this? Is this the Stormhawks fan he’s hired to replace me? The annoyance shifts to worry. Has he come to do more than gloat? Is he about to tell me he’s raising my rent or give me notice?

Grayson gestures between us. “Flic, meet Sonia. Sonia ran a biker bar for fifteen years. She knows everything there is to know about running bars, and she’s a Stormhawks fan.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering her a polite smile before turning a full death glare on Grayson. “It didn’t take you long to replace me. Don’t tell me you bought her bar, too? You’re really stacking up the properties.”