Page 5 of Mr. Brightside

This is impossibly poor timing. Two years ago, I would have had a healthy list of prospects, both male and female.

But life’s been coming at me pretty fast lately. That, or I’m just slowing down with age. I’ve spent the last few years occupied with everyone else’s business, coasting through my own life.

Tori and Rhett had their issues, and some days I felt like they shared custody of me as their emotional support human. Then, once Mike came to me with the idea of buying and renovating the old bar next to Clinton’s, The Oak became my baby. Throw in all the ways I’ve stepped up to help Ashleigh with the girls over the last few years, and I guess it makes sense that my prospect list is feeling a little thin.

And by thin, I mean nonexistent.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I pull it out to read the message. Ashleigh’s leaving the gym and heading our way. I push to my feet, then blast out a wolf whistle that has both girls’ heads snapping to attention.

I’ve been practicing that particular move for months, and can’t help but smirk at the way the nannies and housewives gawk at the girls’ instant obedience. Never mind that my nieces know they’re about to get cake pops from the coffee shop where we’re meeting their mom.

I hand them both their towels, then scoop up Amelia and tickle her.

She squeals and thrashes, but when I ease up, she screams, “More butterflies, Uncle Jakey!”

Fiona gathers up all the Solo cups and reaches for my hand so we can cross the parking lot together. I get them situated in their booster seats and shake my head over my own version of the walk of shame as I slide into the driver’s seat of Ashleigh’s minivan. It’s just easier if we switch cars when I have the girls… but still.

Looking like a manny behind the wheel of a Honda Odyssey is the least of my concerns today. I’ve got cake pops to dole out, a restaurant to check on, a spouse to find, and a deal to close. It’s go time.

Chapter 3

Jake

Ipushthroughtheside door of Clinton’s like I own the place. If everything works out, Iwillown the place. Andsoon—Mike’s leaving for Florida sometime this week. I could be a small business owner in the next few days.

While I was with the girls, Lia texted to let me know the order arrived, and thankfully she’s got most of it put away by the time I circle around the bar to take stock.

“Hey, boss,” she quips as she slides a carton of lemons to the prep station. I fight the smirk that’s threatening to spill out at her attempted jab. She’s going to lose her shit when she finds out I reallyamher new boss.

Lia’s all piss and vinegar: this untamed spirit who thrives off defiance. She and I had a thing a few years back. She’s just as sassy and wild in bed as she is in real life. But just because she’s a spitfire didn’t mean she was okay with the casual thing we had going on. I got the nagging suspicion she was hoping things between us would turn serious—which is my go-to indicator to pull away and cool off.

I don’t know what she expected. I’ve always been proud of my relationship virgin status.

Or, I was proud. Until today. Today it would be awfully convenient if I could ask my boyfriend or girlfriend to marry me.

I lean against the empty side of the bar and watch as Lia expertly slices a lemon. She’s got her hair tied up in a bandanna, her dark brown curls piled up on top of her head. I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who works as hard—or as often—as she does. Except maybe Rhett. I know for a fact that she wakes up at dawn and puts several hours of work into her family’s farm every damn day before showing up for her shifts here.

“Something I can do for you?” she snaps in my direction.

I guess I was staring. When I don’t reply right away, she stabs the tip of the knife into the cutting board, puts both hands on her hips, and turns to glare.

She’s gorgeous. And savage.

I’m pretty sure I want to marry a guy, just to give the middle finger to my dad’s stupid will. But even if I was open to the prospect of a woman, it wouldnotbe this one. I couldn’t handle Aurelia Perry.

“Not at all,” I reply, coming around the bar to help. “What needs to be done?”

Lia grabs the knife and wields it like a laser pointer, swishing it back and forth through the air as she speaks. “Ice is filled, and this is the last of the garnishes. Silverware and kids’ menus need to be refreshed before dinner, but Cory’s supposedly handling those.” She gives me a pointed look. I follow the direction of her knife, my eyes landing on a slumped figure sitting on a stool at the very end of the bar.

I hadn’t even noticed him—he’s hunched low, with his arms crossed on the bar and his forehead resting on them. He’s sitting against the wall, blending in with his surroundings. I would have looked right past him if Lia hadn’t pointed him out.

“Cory,” I call out in greeting. “What’s up, man?”

Lia shoots me another warning glance. She’s acting like I just opened a can of worms. Maybe I have. But that’s my right as their manager. If he’s sick or unfit to work, I need to send him home.

Cory lifts his head to meet my gaze, his deep brown eyes more despondent than I’ve ever seen. He peers down at the bar top, then huffs out an extended exhale.

“Just got some bad news about school,” he offers vaguely. “I’m not on the clock until four. I’ll have my shit together by then.”