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Mom’s nostrils flare, her hands on her hips. “To get food before the dinner rush not because I like it that way!”

I jump in, trying to ease the tension. “Are you sure you dislike all of us equally?”

She snorts, the sound carrying her affection despite the words. “Not entirely, no.”

As the night wraps around us, filled with laughter and jibes, I realize that no matter how tough things get, this—these people, this place—is what keeps me grounded.

Chapter Two

Joely

Here in my county, land of blue-collar backs, black coffee, and broken-in dreams, I’ve seen more crushes crash and burn than pucks slapped against the boards at Miner Arena. Joely Parnell’s holding the biggest torch since the city council tried to light the bonfire with damp wood and municipal shame. Everybody knows it. The Slammers know it. Hell, even the barstools know it. Except Brogan Foster. He’s skating through life like he doesn’t have a damn clue that his forever girl is standing three feet away, pouring beer like it’s not killing her a little more every time she watches him light up for someone else. But that’s the thing about my people. They don’t give up easily. Not on dreams. Not on love. Maybe someday, Joely Parnell will prove it. And then I’ll smile.

Playlist: Almost (Sweet Music) by Hozier

The tap lets out a violent hiss-pop, shooting a frothy stream of foam straight up my arm and across my apron like I’m the guest of honor at a frat party gone wrong.

“Son of a—” I slam the tap back, grabbing for a towel as sticky beer drips down to my elbow. Perfect. Nothing like smelling like an old dive bar.

“Need a hand?”

My head snaps up so fast I nearly whiplash myself. Of course it’s him. Brogan fucking Foster. Propped against the end of the bar like he lives here—like he doesn’t already live rent-free in my head. His stupidly perfect mouth quirks like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all day.

“Unless you’ve got a new keg under that hoodie, you’re useless to me,” I fire back, trying to sound casual, but my voice cracks on the word useless, betraying every humiliating ounce of what I actually feel when he looks at me like that.

Brogan leans in, dropping his voice low enough to curl right down my spine. “Gotta say, JoJo… you wear beer well.”

JoJo. God, kill me now.

I try to glare at him, but it’s basically impossible when he looks like that—hair all wild and messy like he just rolled out of bed (and probably did), blue flannel hanging open enough to show off a light smattering of chest hair, like he’s auditioning for some calendar featuring rugged lumberjacks. He’s got this scruffy jaw and these eyes—a sharp hazel that always see straight through me, no matter how hard I try to hide.

There’s always a half-smirk on his mouth, equal parts trouble and comfort, and just standing there, Brogan radiates a kind of effortless confidence I’ll never understand. If Sorrowville handed out medals for ‘guy most likely to ruin your focus,’ he’d win every damn year.

I force a laugh, wiping my arm like my skin isn’t buzzing just from him standing this close. “Flattered. Really. I’ll be sure to list it on my resume.”

Brogan’s already moving before I can shut the tap down for good, pushing off the bar with that lazy, unbothered swagger that makes half the women in Sorrowville sigh into their beers. He ducks behind the end of the counter as if I’m not standing right here, perfectly capable of handling my own damn mess.

I throw the towel on the bar with a slap. “I can do it, Foster.”

He crouches down in front of the cooler, shooting me a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, I know you can.” He pops the latch on the cooler door like it’s nothing. “I’ve seen your biceps.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

His head snaps up like he’s just realized what he said out loud. “Shit. I mean—” He scrubs a hand down his face, already turning red. “That came out wrong.”

I cross my arms, trying not to smile like an idiot because of course it did. “Uh huh. Go on. Please, dig your hole deeper.”

He lets out a half-strangled laugh, hauling the empty keg out with a grunt. “What I meant was—you don’t need me to do this. But I want to. So… shut up and let me.”

And just like that, my heart forgets how to beat in any kind of normal rhythm. Because it’s nothing. Stupid. Small. A keg.

But to me?

It’s everything.

I swallow the lump clogging my throat and step back, giving him room. He switches out the keg like he’s done it a hundred times—which, to be fair, he probably has. His family does own the place. Still, he doesn’t have to do it tonight. Not when he looks about ten seconds away from falling apart.

And yet here he is… doing it anyway.