Page 3 of Mr. Brightside

It shouldn’t bethatbig a deal. But it is. It really fucking is.

Joe’s will says I have to get married to receive my inheritance. Just knowing he put that in a legal document makes me want to lash out and do the exact opposite. I hate any and all reminders of him. Of what he did. Of the hold he once had on me.

But I can’t think like that right now. This isn’t about him. I’ve worked too hard to overcome those impulses and pave my own way. This is about me. My staff. The hopes and dreams I didn’t even know existed until a few nights ago, when I realized they could all be taken away. This is an opportunity I can’t pass up. As much as it pains me, I’ve come up with a potential solution that just might work.

I’ve challenged my own ego over and over again about this solution. As much as I hate playing his game, I know I can live with this plan if I do it my way. People get married for practical reasons all the damn time. And it’s not like I’m in a relationship or even interested in getting married for traditional reasons. If marriage is what it takes, I can do it. Iwilldo it. I just need to confirm my options before I let myself figure out the who, when, where, and how.

I just wish I had someone to talk this out with. Mike asked me not to tell anyone until he’d had a chance to make an announcement. Fair. But isolating for me.

I’ve almost called Rhett a dozen times over the last two days. He and Tori are the closest thing to family I’ve got. But there was a nagging in the back of my mind that told me to hold off. I don’t really need to seek out his advice. I already know what he’d say.

My best friend is just too moral and good—and a hopeless romantic—to encourage an arranged marriage situation. That, and he’d probably offer to loan me the money, which I donotwant him to do.

This is something I have to figure out on my own.

And I have to figure it out fast. As in now,today, or I might lose my shot entirely.

I huff out a breath as I turn on the shower, shuck off my athletic shorts, and step under the waterfall spray. Usually, a hard workout and a hot shower are enough to clear my mind, but I already know they’re no match for the monumental decision I have to make today.

Chapter 2

Jake

I’mdumpingicebehindthe bar when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Again. I shake my head, but I immediately stop what I’m doing and pull it out to respond.

She’s one of very few people I’ll drop everything for, and I know better than to ignore her on days like today.

Ashleigh: Fiona can’t find her water shoes, and Amelia refuses to put on her bathing suit.

I grin. I can’t help it. As much as I despise the Whitely name, I love that my nieces are ornery as hell. I like to think they get that from me.

Jake: Tell Fifi to wear her Crocs instead. And just pack me extra clothes for Mimi. We both know you’re not going to win.

I don’t bother putting my phone away after I hit send because, if I know my nieces, this conversation’s not done. I lean my elbows on the raw-edge bar top and yawn as I wait for my sister-in-law’s reply.

Ten seconds later, a picture comes through. It’s a selfie taken by Fifi, based on the angle. Her gummy smile with those two missing front teeth takes up most of the screen. Mimi is trying to push into the shot in the bottom corner. She’s wearing one of her favorite pop-punk T-shirts—yes, my five-year-old niece is into pop-punk—and now her resistance to ditch Travis Barker for a bathing suit makes sense.

I chuckle when a slew of emojis that makes absolutely no sense comes through next. There’s an elephant and a caterpillar and five frowny faces and a beer stein and three rows of hearts…

Cole passes behind me with another bucket of ice. “Ohh, someone’s got Jake smiling.”

I roll my eyes and resist tripping him since it would create a bigger mess for me to clean up. “Shove off, nosy Nancy,” I mutter playfully.

“Ah, come on. Who is she?”

I roll my eyes again and pocket my phone, then lean back on the bar and glare. One downside of having a raw-edge bar with a rustic flare is that it’s not as comfortable as my perch at Clinton’s. The number of splinters I’ve had to remove from my ass over the last two years is astounding.

“Or he?” Cole pushes.

I smirk and link my arms over my chest. My sexuality hasn’t been a secret for a long time. I’ve hooked up with more of my coworkers over the years than I care to admit.

My attention shifts at the sound of chimes, and a lanky kid who can’t be more than twenty pushes through the front door of the bar.

I pivot to tell him we’re not open yet. I also silently curse Cole for leaving the door unlocked after the last order was delivered. The trucks typically unload in the back, but sometimes new drivers get confused about where to park.

“Hey, buddy. We’re not—”

“I’m looking for Mr. Jacob Whitely.”