Page 1 of Mr. Brightside

Prologue

“You’rethefirstpersonI’ve told.”

I glance wearily at the only man sitting at my bar. He looks tired. Defeated. Like a shell of the boisterous, good-natured retired Navy SEAL I’m proud to call my mentor and friend.

I finish pouring his beer and approach with caution. I have never, in the ten years I’ve worked for Mike Hobbs, seen him this shaken up. Blowing out a long breath, I try to make sense of everything he just confessed.

His mom is sick. He didn’t know how bad it was. She somehow managed to sign away her entire life savings to an “investor” who has fallen off the grid. Now, not only is she broke, but she’s in debt. Severe debt. And since he just found out she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s more than six months ago, he has no choice but to move to Florida as soon as possible and care for her.

I choose my words carefully, not wanting to come off insensitive but also desperate to know what this means for me.

“What are you going to do?”

There. That should be open-ended enough to err on the side of concerned friend instead of anxious employee. As sympathetic as I feel about his predicament, my mind instantly went to two things: Clinton’s Family Restaurant and The Oak Barrel Tavern.

I’m the manager here at The Oak, and I still fill in at Clinton’s when someone needs a night off. I also invested $100,000 to get the place up and running last year, making me a silent partner. Between the two establishments, I work at least sixty hours a week, and I love every second of it thanks to the people I work with and the patrons I view as friends. If that’s all about to change…

“I have to go.”

I nod like I understand. I don’t. But I also don’t have any living family who would ever need me like that. Assuming my casual bartender stance—leaned back against the bar, arms clasped over my chest, ankles crossed nonchalantly—I try to play it cool, but inside I’m spiraling.

“I’m gonna have to sell, Jake.”

I nod again, intentionally slowing my movements so I don’t come off as too enthusiastic about him giving up his life’s work to help his mom. He said I’m the first person he’s told. That means if I express interest…

“Do you want to buy me out?”

Hell yeah. This is exactly where I was hoping this conversation would lead. I suck in a breath and tell myself to stay cool. Given his dire circumstances, I don’t want to seem too eager.

“I do. I want them both,” I confirm, pushing off the ice maker and coming to stand across from him on my side of the bar.

He nods solemnly. “I figured. And I want it to be you. But it has to be fast. Honestly, I have half a mind to book the next damn flight to Florida…” I swear his eyes cloud with tears before he lifts his glass and gulps down half his beer.

I wait. Watching. Desperate to know what happens next. When he finally sets down his glass, he’s all business.

“I’m not trying to make bank. But I need a fair buyout. You’ve seen the books. You know what both places are worth. And the fact that I own the buildings…”

Tongue stuck into the hollow of my cheek, I weigh my options. I’m well off, thanks to the inheritance my mom left me that my grandma helped me invest. I also own the entire building I live in. A chunk of my savings went into The Oak, but Mike already paid me back with interest, so that’s not a concern. I have money. Just not as much as he’s going to need.

“Would you consider a payment plan? Monthly payments for the businesses for a set amount of time, then rent-to-own for the buildings?”

His grimace tells me all I need to know. “I’m sorry, kid. That won’t work. In addition to moving down there for however long, I need to get my mom set up in a memory care facility. I’m gonna need a lump sum, and I’m gonna need it fast.”

I run a hand through my hair and try not to show my disappointment. We haven’t even talked real numbers yet, but I know I don’t have what he’s asking. Even if I sold off some of the condo units, that probably wouldn’t be fast enough.

I hold back a shudder as I think about the nuclear option.

Very few people know I stand to inherit more than ten million dollars from my late father’s estate. Joe’s been dead for years, but my cut remains untouched. His will states that I have to get married if I want my money. Leave it to Joe Whitely to try to dictate my life from the grave.

I’ve been uninterested in that money my whole life. I don’t need it. I don’t want it. I’d rather become a monk and take a vow of celibacy than fulfill his dying wish.

And yet…

“I hear you. And I respect that you need this handled as quickly as possible. Can you give me two days to figure out what I can do?”

Mike nods and looks past me to the marquee lights hanging above the mirrored back wall. We poured our literal blood, sweat, and tears into this place. As much as I know he doesn’t want to leave it, I have to believe he wants it to go to me.

I want it. I want it bad. But first, I need to figure outexactlywhat Joe’s marriage contingency entails. Then I need to decide whether I love this bar more than I hate my dad.