“You should be here,” I mutter.
Chris should be here.
It’s a thought that repeats in my head as I pour a beer—Razzle Dazzle from our brewery—and slide it across the bar to a waiting Darcy.
I’m bartending at Down Home Pub tonight.
The pub has been in my family for generations. My great-grandfather passed it down to my grandfather, and then when my grandfather almost lost it, my dad returned to Blue Beech to prevent it from going bankrupt. He had planned to help him get back on his feet and then leave, but then my grandfather moved to Florida, and my father stayed. So, he took over the pub and then never left after falling in love with my mother.
Before there were ever even thoughts of a brewery, Chris and I bartended at Down Home. We talked about so many plans—having a business together, and when my father stepped down, we’d merge the brewery and the bar into one.
Now, I have to accomplish that dream solo.
Because over my dead body will Little Miss Amelia Malone share this with me.
I won’t let her fuck more shit up.
I’ll push her out if it’s the last thing I do.
I don’t bartend as much as I used to, but I’ve been asking my father for shifts.
Bartending helps clear my mind of business problems, losing my best friend, and how I’m feeling about the woman he left behind … and practically dumped right into my lap.
“Thanks, Jax,” Darcy says, winking at me.
I like Darcy. We dated for a few weeks in high school, but it never went anywhere. She ended up marrying a guy from our high school, who then cheated with their daughter’s dance coach. Said dance coach is across the room, dancing with her friends to the live band’s music. Thank fuck Darcy’s ex-husband is nowhere to be seen. My hopes are that Darcy doesn’t notice the mistress. After dealing with Amelia these past few days, breaking up a girl fight sounds like a goddamn headache.
I jerk my head in her direction. “Welcome.”
“You doing okay?” She reaches out to brush her hand along mine.
I shut my eyes, hating this part—this constant question after losing someone you were close with.
Are you doing okay?
How are you holding up?
I don’t mind as much when it’s coming from Darcy though. She’s been good to me. She found me, drunk and sitting on the curb of the funeral home, the night after Chris’s wake. She grabbed the bourbon from my hand, brought me home, and took care of my wasted ass. She asked if I wanted to get a drink sometime, but I asked for a rain check. That rain check hasn’t come, and she hasn’t brought it up.
I’ve been so damn busy that I don’t have time to date. My head needs to stay on the brewery. I saw what being in a relationship, being in love, did to Chris. And like hell will I let a girl destroy my heart as much as Amelia did his.
Darcy shifts in her chair, almost as if she’s scanning the bar, and she briefly focuses on something before turning back around and saying, “Your girl is here.”
My girl?
Since when the fuck do I have a girl?
I glance over her shoulder in the direction she was looking, and my gaze focuses on Amelia, who’s headed our way. She appears uncomfortable, her purse pressed tight against her stomach, and her eyes don’t meet any other customers’. Or mine. No doubt she wants to dodge anyone asking how she’s been.
She probably gets that more than I do.
I hope so.
She deserves it.
Let them rip her apart.
“My girl?” I snort and pull her drink from her hand. “You’re drunk and therefore cut off.”
Darcy snatches back the glass. “Not everyone is blind in this town, Jax.” She rolls her eyes before giving me a cheers motion and downs her drink. “Have a good night. I promise to make it easier by holding myself back from pulling the homewrecking whore out the bar by her hair.”
I throw my head back. “Jesus, fuck, please don’t.”
Amelia has never been my girl.
She was Chris’s girl.
Even though I had known her first.
Even though I had touched her first.
In the end, she became his.
And now, she’s no one’s.
“You were so much more fun in high school,” Darcy says around a groan. “If you need someone to clear your mind after seeing your first love in here, you have my number.” She slides off her stool, shoots me a flirty smile, and walks away.
I gape at Amelia with each step she takes toward me. She changed out of the clothes she had on earlier today at the brewery and is wearing a pair of tight jeans and a tank top that shows a hint of her cleavage. Unless she’s wearing a turtleneck, I don’t think there will ever be a time she doesn’t have cleavage.
She was once so comfortable at the pub—a regular with Chris and our friends—and always visited him while he bartended here. I once told her if she was going to be here so much, she needed to get a towel and start cleaning. She then took that towel, poured someone’s leftover beer onto it, and threw it at me.
Darcy stops to talk to Amelia on her way out, and Amelia gives her a timid smile before saying good-bye.
Amelia, timid?
That’s a new one.
I’ve been around Amelia more in the past few days than I have in months. I kept as much distance between us as I could after Chris’s funeral. I was doing well until the whole partner situation. One thing I’ve noticed is, she’s definitely different. There’s a deep brokenness to her. It’s explainable, obviously, but so unlike her.
She’s not the same Amelia—bright, bubbly, outspoken, and someone who always had the right thing to say on the tip of her tongue. Amelia was almost … perfect. I’d never say that shit out loud because I loathe her.
Surprisingly, Amelia strolls to my side of the bar. She pulls out a stool and plops down on it without looking up at me.
When she does peek up, she blows out a breath at the sight of me. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Why can’t I seem to get rid of you lately? You still bartend here?”
I guess she didn’t realize she was coming to my end of the bar.
“My bad.” I scowl at her. “I forgot to sync my schedule with you.”
“Funny.” She pinches her plump lips together. “You might want to start doing that, so we can schedule the day you sell me your half of the brewery.”
Even though Amelia is talking shit, there’s no doubt she’s had a rough day.
I know she’s had a rough day because since she walked into the brewery, it was my goal to make it rough on her.
The rougher, the better. Just like sex.
I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “Millie, one thing you need to get through your mind is, that will never—and I repeat, never—fucking happen. My brewery shares the same name as my family’s business. You honestly can’t think I’d ever give that to someone, especially you. I thought you were smarter than that.”
Her head jerks back. “Screw you.”
Resting my elbows on the bar, one on each side of her, I lean into her space. “Why are you here, Amelia?”
Her breathing hitches at our proximity. I’m practically whispering into her ear. I suck in a breath when I see goose bumps form along her bare arms. I start to comment on them but decide against it. This isn’t the time to point out shit like that. It’s the time to continue being an asshole, getting out the worst jabs that I can.
There’s so much commotion surrounding us in the bar, but it’s as if we were in our own little world. Gone from my mind are people screaming out drink orders or people yelling cheers too damn loud.
Amelia doesn’t pull away. “I needed a drink, and sometimes, I don’t like doing it alone.”
“Your dad co-owns another bar.” My face and voice harden. “Go there.”
“He’s working there tonight. Last thing I want is for him to see his daughter in the corner of the bar, drinking away her sorrows.”
“And being a dead guy’s ex-fiancée, drinking away her sorrows at his old workplace, is any better?”
She flinches.
My words hit her exactly as I’d intended them to.
It was mean. I know. And I’m typically not a mean person, but the chick needs to stay away from the brewery and let me run my business in peace. If her not wanting to be around me because I say asshole shit assists me in getting my way, well, even better.
“Don’t you dare say it like that, Jaxson.”
Her face reddens in fury, and I push myself off the bar, certain she’s contemplating punching me in the face.
I tilt my head mockingly. “Don’t say it like what, Amelia?”
“Don’t you dare call me the dead guy’s ex-fiancée.” She curls her upper lip. “Not only are those words incredibly insulting, but Chris and I were much more than that, nor were we ever ex-anything.”
“What do you call someone who calls off their wedding?”
I’m ignoring customers right and left, not giving one fuck because I know my father will take care of them for me.
Amelia is stating the truth.
She and Chris were a lot more than that.
A hell of a lot more.
But she broke his fucking heart, so I don’t mind breaking hers.
She slams her hand down onto the bar. “If we’re going to play it that way, then I’ll refer to you as the dead guy’s best friend. How does that feel?”
“Don’t you dare do that shit,” I snarl.
“Do what? Play your game back on you?” She raises a brow. “You love judging me for decisions I made, which I don’t have to explain to you. What about you, Jax? What about the bad decisions you made with Chris?”
My blood boils.
If she wants to go there, we’ll go there.
“Millie Monster, are you referring to when we fucked one night and hid it from our dead friend?” I tsk her and advance a step, not caring if we catch bystanders’ attention. “Don’t forget you failed to tell him as well. So, that’s an us decision.”
She grimaces. “Why are you so cruel?”
“When have I ever been nice?”
She stays quiet a moment before saying, “If I had a drink, I’d throw it in your face right now.”
“I’ll help you out with that then.” I turn, snatch a glass from the rack, scoop ice into it, and make her favorite drink without paying her another glance.
Why I’m making her favorite drink, I don’t know.
I should be giving her something she hates.
When I’m finished, I slam the drink down in front of her, and sprinkles of cranberry juice hit the bar. “Throw away.” I reverse a step, holding my arms out, emphasizing that I’m her target.
Her gaze slides from me to my father. “I won’t make a scene at our fathers’ business. I have too much respect for them, unlike you.”
“All right then.” I gesture to her drink. “Drink that guilt up.”
Without waiting for a response from her, I walk away, pretending I don’t care. My brain goes to all the times I’ve drunk away my guilt.
I was twenty the first time it happened. Young, dumb, and spiteful. I’d texted Amelia, suggesting we tell Chris because it was the right thing to do. Even though I knew it wasn’t. She told me I’d lost my mind, to which I told her that the only time I’d ever lost my mind was when I had sex with her.
We never told Chris.
It remained a secret between us.
To everyone.
And it always will.
Not too long after our conversation, Amelia stands from her stool. I watch her, assuming she’s leaving, but she only moves to the other side of the bar, where my father is working. He kindly smiles at her as she slumps into a leather barstool in the corner, slightly turning toward the wall. Her body language screams, Leave me the hell alone.
Throughout the night, I drop two glasses and spill a beer. All of which are unlike me. Hell, I haven’t broken anything at the bar in years. Some of them are because of my wandering mind, and the others are because I keep sneaking glances at Amelia.
Why is she still here?
After the shit we said to each other, she should have realized she wasn’t welcome here.
For the next hour, my father serves her. He also adds less alcohol to her drinks than normal—most likely not wanting her to get completely shitfaced. He understands her hurt since he suffered a loss along with us. He’d taken Chris in, raised him for years, and treated him like a son.
The first and only time I’ve ever seen my father cry was at Chris’s funeral. The sadness in his eyes matched mine whenever his name was brought up.
One night, I overheard him telling my mother he felt as if he’d failed Chris and not been a good enough role model for him. That he was scared he wasn’t a good enough father for us. My mother assured him he was, which is the truth. I have damn good parents. And though it wasn’t for a long time, I’m happy that Chris was able to experience that too.
It’s around midnight when my father approaches me and says, “I’m heading out. Frankie is taking over for me, but keep an eye on Amelia. I haven’t made her drinks strong, but I don’t want her driving home. Call her parents or a friend at the end of the night to take her home. Do not leave until she’s safely on her way.”
I salute him. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”
My father slaps my back. “I know you will.”
There’s no doubt on his face that I won’t do what I said. Amelia and I have our differences, but I’d never leave her somewhere drunk. Hell, I wouldn’t do that to any female. I don’t know how many times women have handed me their phones and asked me to call someone from their Contacts for a ride.
Another hour passes, and people start clearing out of the bar. When I glance at Amelia, she’s yawning, and her eyes are glossy as she talks to Frankie.
“She’s cut off,” I tell Frankie, my voice demanding, as I walk to them.
I couldn’t care less if she’s hungover tomorrow.
Let her feel miserable.
What I don’t want is her sitting alone, vulnerable, in a bar.
Amelia glares at me. “You’re not my boss.” Her attention pings to Frankie. “Pour me another one, babe.”
“Pour her a water or soda,” I correct, my tone serious.
Frankie glances back and forth between us, as if attempting to put two and two together, and then nods. “Okay.” She briefly smiles at Amelia. “Sorry, babe, but it’s for the best. You’ll thank us when you don’t feel like crap tomorrow.”
Frankie only started working at the bar a few months ago, so she doesn’t know my history with Amelia. She also sees me as the boss’s son, and most likely, she doesn’t want to argue with me. We also made it clear upon hiring every employee that we have no problem with cutting customers off or refusing service.
I point my chin at Amelia. “Call Ava, Essie, or your parents—someone to pick you up. I’m not babysitting you.”
“Did you forget everyone is in Vegas?” She rolls her eyes. “And I’d rather walk home than have you help me.”
“Then, find a ride.”
She snatches her phone from her purse and waves me away.
Forty-five minutes later, Amelia hasn’t moved her ass from the other side of the bar.
The fuck?
I told her to leave.
I don’t want her here.
There are enough reminders of Chris here.
And she’s the worst of them.
When I see her, a combination of shame and anger rises through me.
I see Chris, our past, what we did, and how I once fell for her. I don’t need to feel that shit right now.
I charge over to her. “Where’s your ride?”
“Don’t have one,” she replies, playing with the straw in her water glass.
“I told you to find one.”
“And I couldn’t.” She shrugs. “Our friends are out of town. I’m not calling my mother and telling her I’m alone in a bar. I can already hear her staying safe speech—”
“You’re at Down Home,” I interrupt. “She knows you’re safe.”
“Exactly. I talked to Frankie, and she suggested you give me a ride.”
I cup my hand around my mouth and yell for Frankie. She skips over to us.
“Did you suggest I take her home?” I ask, tipping my chin toward Amelia.
Frankie bites into her lower lip and nods. “Kinda, sorta.”
My attention snaps back to Amelia. “What happened to you’d rather walk?”
“I don’t think you’d let her walk even if she tried,” Frankie says, flipping her brown hair over her shoulder. “Now, either I can leave and make you serve everyone or I can tend the bar and you can take this sweet girl home.”
“See,” Amelia says with a smug, inebriated smile. “She said I’m sweet, asshole.”
“She’s young, and she isn’t mature enough to know who Satan is,” I reply.
Frankie throws her head back and laughs. “I’ve got this. Take the girl home.”
I shake my head. “Frankie, I know you’re new here, but I don’t play babysitter.”
“You’re not a babysitter,” Amelia says with a smirk. “You’re my Uber.”
I run a hand over my face. “I’m not your goddamn Uber either.”
“It’s a ten-minute drive. You can take me home.”
Amelia hates me.
I hate her.
Why would she want me to take her home?
Because she’s tipsy and not thinking clearly—that’s why.
I narrow my eyes at her. “You’d better not try to kill me on the way home, so you can have the entire brewery to yourself.”
“You’re not worth the prison time, Bridges.”
I clean up my side of the bar and double-check with Frankie that she’s good to handle things on her own. Then, I point to Amelia’s drunk ass and say, “Let’s go.”
There’s no missing the curious glances we receive when I assist her off the stool, hold her elbow, and lead her toward the employee door at the back of the bar. Thank fuck my Land Rover is parked in the back lot. It’s less steps, which means less people claiming we left the bar together. Just that sentence alone sounds bad.
No one knows details, so all they’ll relay to their friends is, Did you see Jax and Amelia leave Down Home together?
While I love living in a small town, I hate that it’s big on gossip. And a guy leaving the bar with his deceased best-friend’s girl is grade-A gossip and shameful. And no one would bother to question if that was really the case.
Us walking through the employee hall doesn’t exactly mean we’ve dodged all questioning looks in our direction. It might be worse. Most people in the back kitchen know Amelia. They’ll either see me as a jackass for being with Chris’s girl or the good guy for making sure she gets home safely after having one too many.
One too many at a bar I didn’t want her at.
One too many at the last place she should have been.
I push the back door open, and we walk out into the night. She groans when we reach my truck, and I open the passenger door. Grabbing her elbow, I help her inside. When her ass hits the seat, she turns her head, her eyes meeting mine. Our only sources of light are the overhead parking lot lights and the faint glow from my car. Her brown eyes soften, and for a second, I’m transported to a time when we were two kids who loved picking on each other.
She relaxes into the seat, as if she feels safe and content for the first time in a while.
Without thinking, I reach out and slowly push a fallen strand of hair away from her face before running my knuckle against the soft skin of her cheek. She shudders. I’m not sure if it’s a result of my touch or the chilliness of my hand. She briefly shuts her eyes, as if my touching her is a stress reliever, but I instantly pull away at the sound of a door slamming.
Our eye contact drops as I look past her to Cal, one of the cooks, walking out. He tosses a bag of trash into the dumpster and walks back inside without paying us a glance. Thank fuck for Cal though.
Amelia bows her head, no longer looking at me, and I slam the door. I curse myself on my walk to the driver’s side. For a moment, I contemplate whether driving her home is a good idea. I could call my dad, her dad, ask Frankie to do it.
An uncomfortable silence fills the car as I shift the car into reverse and pull out of the parking lot and onto the street. One thing I at least have on my side is the drive is short since Amelia’s townhome is only a few miles from the pub.
Neither one of us knows what to say.
Or how to break this stillness.
Or even if we should.
I don’t say anything until we pull in front of her townhome and I put my Land Rover in park. “As payment for this ride, I’d like for you to steer clear of the brewery for at least a month.”
She stares straight ahead. “Can you shut up about that for ten minutes? It’s getting old, Jaxson. There shall be no business talk when alcohol is involved.”
“The only thing we need to talk about is business, Amelia.”
She blows out a breath and rests her head against the headrest. “Remember when we used to sneak into Down Home?”
“How could I forget?”
“Our parents wanted to kill us.”
“We wouldn’t have been in nearly as much trouble had you not dared me to try some beer.”
My mind drifts back to that night. We were fifteen, and it was right after our parents became partners. Our dads were in the bar, working, and left Amelia and me in the apartment—which is now mine—located above the pub. Why they even thought that was a good idea is beyond me. We were bored, so Amelia came up with the bright idea to sneak into the bar.
She’d dared me to do it with her when I was twelve, but I chickened out, knowing that my dad would have my ass for it.
But I wanted to show off for Amelia, so that night, I shrugged and said, “Why not?”
A hot girl was suggesting we break the rules. I was all for it.
We didn’t make it twenty minutes until someone ratted on us. Our dads dragged us back upstairs and called our mothers to snitch.
My mom laughed, which earned her a stern, “Really, Sierra?” from my father.
She mentioned some shit about like mother, like son.
That was how my mom and dad had first met. She’d snuck into the pub when she was only eighteen, and my dad kicked her out.
Amelia and I have changed so much since we were stupid teenagers.
“Do you honestly believe Chris’s death is my fault?” Her question comes out of nowhere.
“Didn’t we say there’d be no talk of business?” I ask, raising my hands to grip the steering wheel.
She plays with her hands in her lap. “That’s not exactly business.”
I stay quiet.
“Be honest,” she whispers.
Looking away, I work my jaw before clearing my throat and saying, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, Amelia.”
“What have I ever done for you to hate me this much?” Her voice is despondent and riddled with pain. “You know I loved him.”
I talk before she can continue her lies. “You loved him?” I scoff. “You fucking broke him.”
As if she can’t endure another word from me, she frantically unbuckles her seat belt, swings the car door open, and nearly face-plants out of it.
“Goddammit.” I hurriedly step out of the car before she hurts herself and gives me an even bigger headache.
“Don’t!” she screams into the night. “I don’t want or need your help!”
I’m waiting for a neighbor to call the cops on us for acting like fucking lunatics.
Not wanting to deal with that possible problem, I extend my helping hand to her. “Come on. I’ll get you inside and then be on my way.”
Tears well in her eyes, but she blinks, attempting to keep them at bay so I’m not satisfied with her breakdown.
Lowering my voice, I say, “Amelia, come on. The more time you spend out here, giving me the death stare, the more time we spend together. Let’s get you inside.”
She stares at me grimly before slowly nodding and sliding her ass off half her seat. I grab her trembling hand, gently helping her out of her seat, and her elbow is shaking when I guide her onto the sidewalk and up her porch stairs. Neither of us mutters a word in the process. I keep her up with one hand, and with the other, I grab her keys from her jeans pocket to unlock the door.
She hits a light switch. The hallway illuminates, and I free her from my hold.
“Come on,” I say, gripping her wrist. “I’ll throw you in bed, and you can sleep off your buzz and call in to work tomorrow.”
She halts, her arm reaching out for me, and shrieks, “No!” Realizing her outburst, she shuts her eyes. “I mean … you don’t have to do that. Just drop me off in the living room, and I’ll take care of myself from there.”
The last thing I need is her hurting herself, trying to get into bed. We’ve come this far, so I might as well finish the job. I’ll consider it my good deed for the week.
She glares at me, not moving.
“Trust me, I won’t try to touch you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
No one has ever referred to me as a man you need to worry about being alone with, so Amelia’s behavior is strange, but so the fuck is she. So, I ignore it.
She still doesn’t move.
Jesus.
“You think you’re going to vomit?” I ask. “I’ll dump you in the bathroom, and you can sleep it off in there.”
She goes quiet.
“Oh shit, are you about to vomit?”
“The bathroom is fine,” she mutters.
I nod, and on our trek to the bathroom for Amelia’s possible upchuck, we pass her laundry room.
I stop, blinking like I had too much to drink and am seeing shit. “Whoa, why does it look like someone is camping out in your laundry room?”
The disheveled blankets, the sleeping bag, and pillows.
“It’s nothing,” she quickly replies.
“What the fuck is going on, Amelia?”
“Oh, I don’t sleep in my bedroom anymore.” She shrugs.
“Why the hell not?”
Her eyes are vacant. “That’s none of your concern.”
“You’re right; it’s not. But it’s also pretty fucking weird.”
She shrugs. “People do it sometimes.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone crashing in their laundry room, and I know damn well before Chris passed, you were sleeping in bed together.” My stomach churns at those words.
“Things change,” she says, using the wall as leverage to slide out of my hold and move past me.
I snatch her hand. “Tell me why you’re sleeping in your laundry room.”
“Go home, Jax.” She jerks away from me. “You got me home. You did your good deed. Thank you.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping in your goddamn room, Amelia?”
“Would you be able to do it, Jax?” she cries out, the tears she’s been holding back now slipping down her face freely. “Would you be able to go into that same room after you found the love of your life dead in there?”