Page 84 of Sealing the Deal

Before I can protest again, a midwife slips quietly into the room to check on Izzy and the baby. I squeeze Izzy’s hand, lean down to press another kiss to her forehead. She smiles up at me, exhausted and happy, before gazing down at her daughter, like the world is tucked into the crook of her arm.

Outside, the cool night is a welcome relief from the stuffy air of the hospital. I draw in a deep breath and exhale it slowly. I think about what Izzy said. That big, wide world. The same thoughts I’ve been having for weeks now. Even today, I thought about how I wanted more from my life than the bar. I haven’t figured out what “more” means yet. A second location? Travel? Expanding the fans page? Something bigger. But not this—not New York. That can’t be what I meant. Can it?

The idea of leaving everything I’ve built—my bar, my home, the Sullivans, the city that feels stitched into my bones—makes my stomach twist. This place is my history. My safety net. My identity. And even if I did consider it… I don’t know if Grayson would want that. We’ve only known each other a short time. We were just beginning to peel back layers instead of sparring over them. What if we were right all along and this is as far as we were meant to go?

Except, I love him.

And I don’t want to imagine a life where I don’t get to see him walk into a room. Where I don’t get his dry commentary in my ear or feel his hand find mine like it belongs there. I don’t want to imagine mornings without him. Or think about him in New York, shouldering the weight of expectations and responsibility alone, while I’m here, both of us pretending we’re fine.

By the time I make it back to The Hay Barn, it’s close to closing time. A handful of regulars are playing pool near the back. The jukebox hums low country music.

Sonia looks up from where she’s stacking glasses, smiling when she spots me. “Hey,” she says warmly. “There’s someone here to see you.”

My heart leaps stupidly, traitorously. For one breathless second, I let myself hope it’s Grayson. Then I turn to find a woman in a business suit, standing near the end of the bar with her arms folded, impatience written all over her face. Not Grayson. Of course it isn’t. He left for New York.

Exhaustion weighs down my limbs as I walk toward her. “Can I help you?” I ask, letting my tone convey exactly how little I have left to give tonight.

“Felicity Moore?” she asks.

I nod, but I stay standing. Already on my guard.

“My name is Monica Samuels. I’m with Samuels & Samuels Property Development.” She pauses, eyeing the bar. “I’d like to talk to you about the strip of properties you own.”

“Strip?” I frown. “I own this building. That’s it.”

She hesitates, frowns, then pulls a folded document from her bag and hands it to me. “According to the city records, you own the entire strip.”

I stare down at the paper she hands me, my pulse ticking up as understanding dawns. Why am I not surprised? Grayson bought them all when he bought my building and instead of just signing over the bar to me, he signed over the entire strip. He knew I’d do right by these businesses. Trusting me like I trusted him.

“You may not be aware,” Monica continues smoothly, “but last year, we were in final negotiations with the previous owner to acquire the whole block.” She slides a glossy brochure across the bar. “Before they were bought in January, that is.”

The image on the front of the brochure makes my stomach churn. It’s this street, but my bar is gone. The launderette is gone. The pawn shop is gone. All of the buildings have been replaced by a glass office building that looks like a thousand others.

“My old landlord was planning to sell?” I ask quietly, even though I already know the answer.

“Yes,” Monica says.

I nod. The rent hikes make sense now. He was planning to sell. Easier to get us out if we’re already at financial breaking point.

“We’re obviously happy to carry over the same terms with you. Inside you’ll find⁠—”

“No.” The word is firm and immediate.

Her brows lift in surprise.

“They’re not for sale,” I say, pushing the brochure away.

Images flood my mind. Mr. and Mrs. Alvarez at the launderette, who bring me empanadas when they make extras. Larry at the pawn shop, who pretends he’s gruff but keeps spare change for kids who come in short. Sally Fields, the women’s rights attorney, whose office is tucked at the end of the block, fighting battles that matter. I can’t quite believe I own it all. But there’s no universe where I will sell.

Monica studies me for a long moment, clearly reassessing. “You may want to reconsider. The offer is very generous.”

I shake my head. “This place isn’t just real estate. It’s home. And it’s not going anywhere.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “If you change your mind⁠—”

“I won’t,” I say calmly.

She gathers her things and leaves without another word, heels clicking against the floor. I stand there for a moment, the bar quiet around me, the weight of the day pressing in from all sides. I need air.