All I wanted was a goddamn Western omelet.
Can’t a guy get breakfast without seeing the woman he despises?
It’d been a minute since I’d had one of Shirley’s breakfasts, but I woke up with an omelet craving. When I walked in, I didn’t need the woman in front of me to turn around. No, I know Amelia Malone so well that I could pick her out of a crowd anywhere.
I might hate her, but I know more about her than some of her closest friends—what her favorite meal is, her biggest fear, and how her mind works. Everything I wish I could forget.
I flexed my jaw to hold myself back from engaging with her, but there was no stopping myself.
When I saw Amelia, when I thought of her, it was a reminder of what I’d lost. I saw someone to point the finger at, to blame, so I wouldn’t have to look at myself. My wicked words won’t bring Christopher back, but in the back of my mind, it makes me feel better to take my grievances out on someone else.
Do I feel good about doing it?
Sometimes, yes.
Sometimes, no.
After storming out of the diner, I stood in the parking lot, wondering if I’d gone too far. To which the answer was yes. Neighbors who’d watched me grow up, friends of my parents, and even brewery customers observed my spite. It was wrong, bad for business, but my pain had clouded my thoughts from those consequences.
But it’s not like Amelia and I have ever been nice to each other. Everyone knows we competed against each other on everything and have for years. We hated each other, then lusted after the other, and it might’ve turned into love, but we circled back to hate. The difference now though is, our hatred for each other has moved into darker territory.
Don’t go into business with your best friend.
Because what the fuck do you do when they die too young?
You want to tear the place apart since it’s a daily reminder of him. That’s what you want to do. You want to walk away because the other player on your team is gone. But you can’t.
Chris was only twenty-six. He hadn’t even hit thirty, had children, or witnessed our business thrive.
I sit at a table in the back of our brewery and take in all we put together in the last two years. We’d been at the top of the world when we opened Down Home Brewery in Blue Beech, Iowa—our hometown.
So many times, I do this.
Look around and wonder what I am going to do without him.
We’d already started discussing opening a second location. The brewery became our baby, our life, but Chris asked me to wait a year before taking that step. He planned to marry Amelia and wanted to focus on the wedding. I reluctantly agreed and planned his bachelor party, but then he came in and broke the news six months ago.
Amelia had called off the wedding.
I’d never witnessed a man so heartbroken.
In that moment, I was happy I’d never had a serious relationship.
That I hadn’t been stupid enough to give someone else that much power over me.
Hell, sometimes, I wondered how much of a heart I had inside.
The only person I’d ever had any thoughts of affection for was the woman who had broken off their wedding.
But I’d suppressed that years ago, let it go, and moved on. So had she.
I grab my phone when it rings, interrupting my thoughts, and see Unknown Number.
Fuck that.
Not in the mood for a spam call.
I blankly stare at my phone, watching it vibrate against the table while ignoring it. When it stops, a voice mail notification pops up on the screen. Solicitors don’t typically leave voice mails, so I listen to the message.
“This message is for Jax Bridges. This is Marshall Haney from Haney and Burnett at Law. I’m calling regarding your business partner, Christopher Simpson. I’d like to set up an appointment at my office to talk. Please get back with me at …”
I don’t listen to him recite his number. Instead, I immediately call him back. His secretary answers, and within minutes, I’m on the phone with Marshall Haney.
“Mr. Bridges,” Marshall greets from the other end. His voice is businesslike, like the men speaking in those litigation commercials that tell you you’re able to sue everyone in the goddamn world. “Thank you for returning my call.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, unsure of where this conversation will lead.
Chris had an attorney?
For what?
He was a great business partner, but he wasn’t the best man about paperwork and appointments. We each had our own roles, and dealing with contracts wasn’t Chris’s.
“Christopher left a will, and I’d like to go over it with you.”
“A will? What would Chris need a will for?”
“His assets, among other things.”
I scratch my head. “All right.”
We schedule our meeting for tomorrow.
What assets did Chris have?
The brewery. I guess my dumbass didn’t consider that he owned half the business and, unless he had it set up otherwise, the bar would go to his family.
Shit.
My stomach turns, a headache forming, and I scrub a hand over my forehead.
Chris’s family are the last people who deserve anything from him. They abused and neglected him in so many ways. I couldn’t see him leaving his share to them. Fingers crossed Marshall tells me that I’m now the sole owner of Down Home Brewery.
If his side of the business did get left to his family, I’d pay anything to buy those assholes out. No way would they ever be my business partners.
And if he didn’t leave his share to them, who the fuck else would he have left it to?
I nearly drop my phone at the thought of him having left it to the one woman I hate.
No fucking way.