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No Mom. No Joely. Just a bunch of regulars and the ghost of responsibility breathing down my neck.

Mom left in a hurry—that much I know. She sent a text that said,“Handle the bar. Don’t burn it down.”Which, honestly, feels like a low bar to clear.

I sling my jacket behind the counter, mentally prepping for the chaos that is Monday Night Football. The place is packed. Wall-to-wall flannel, foam fingers, and dudes arguing about fantasy stats like it’s life or death. I haven’t even made it behind the bar before Lynsie blows in to man the kitchen in a pinch, eyes scanning like a hawk on a mouse hunt.

Then Bennett barrels through the side door, scowl is locked in place, jaw tight, dark hair slightly damp. That means Mom must’ve dragged him out of the house mid-shower. Impressive. And terrifying.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, still trying to manage the crowd forming by the bar.

He doesn’t answer—just grabs a bar towel and slaps it onto his shoulder. “I’m your new bartender. Go man the door like you’re supposed to. It’s Monday Night Football. This place is packed.”

“You have work at seven a.m.,” I remind him, pointing at the wall clock ticking too fast for my liking.

“Of course I do. Does anyone care? No. I just get ordered in to cover Mom’s shift like I’m the unpaid intern of the Foster family.”

“Where’s Joely?” I ask again, more sharply this time, but the question lodges in my throat.

I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes, thumb hovering over Joely’s name. No text. No call. Just a blank screen and a pit in my stomach. I half expect to see one of her little notes tucked by the register—a stick figure Brogan, lopsided heart, some snark about ‘bartender of the year.’ But there’s nothing. Just a lone pink hair tie wound around a taphandle, like she left a piece of herself behind to haunt me. My nerves are chewing through my patience.

Lynsie shrugs, lips pressed tight. “I’m your new chef, by the way.”

Bennett snorts. “God help us.”

“Why is no one answering me?” I demand.

“Because you’re still standing here when you should be greeting drunk uncles and carding teenagers at the door.”

I man my post for a good ten minutes before my grumpy elder brother calls me over. “Go deliver this.” Bennett says, shoving a red plastic tray with a burger basket into my hands. “It’s for Shep.”

I peek down. “Since when do our burgers have smiley faces drawn on the bun in ketchup?”

Bennett jerks his chin toward Lynsie, who is suddenly very invested in stirring a pot of chili.

“Since our new chef is one smitten kitten.”

“Bennett,” Lynsie says, tone low and dangerous. “Come here.”

He leans through the pass-through window, completely unbothered. “What up, kitten?”

“You think you’re so clever,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Tell Shep and I will cut you.”

“With what? A rubber spatula?” he deadpans.

“I’m improvising!” she hisses, brandishing it like a sword. “There are knives back here. Big ones. So don’t press your luck.”

I roll my eyes and carry the order out toward Shep, who’s holding court by the dartboard.

“Here, lover boy,” I mutter. “Your burger’s happy to see you.”

Shep raises both hands. “Woooooo! I love this bar!”

The moment’s barely funny to me. I glance at my phone. Still nothing from Joely. No missed calls. No texts. Just a stomach full of dread and a head full of worst-case scenarios.

Then I spot movement at the front. One of Shep’s little brothers, Nash, tries to sneak in under a winter beanie that’s way too low on his face.

“Little dude,” I bark, pointing to the door, “not tonight. Go home.”

“My name is Nash,” he says, wounded.