Page 1 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

Three things I know for certain on a summer Friday night at the Black Lantern bar in Dark River: Dolly Parton’s Jolene is stuck on repeat, my old boots are slowly torturing my feet to death, and my best friend Lark is about to declare her independence from the entire male species. Again.

“I’m serious this time,” she announces, sliding an empty pint glass across the bar with the authority of someone who’s made this declaration at least once a month since her divorce. “Men are officially canceled. I’m going to get three more cats and name them all after different cheeses.”

“You’re allergic to cats.” I pull the tap for table six’s IPA, muscle memory taking over while my mind wanders to the notebook hidden under the register. Twenty pages of crossed-out first lines and exactly zero second ones. “And lactose intolerant.”

“Details.” Lark grabs a scoop and attacks the ice bin. “The point is, I’m done. Finished. The vagina is clooooosed for business.”

A customer at the end of the bar snorts into his whiskey. I catch his eye and give him my best conspiratorial grin. “She’s just upset because the last guy she dated thought explaining his fantasy football lineup counted as foreplay.”

The customer—Bill, here every Friday since his wife passed last year—chuckles into his drink. “My Helen used to complain that I thought talking about fishing was pillow talk.”

“That sounds like her,” I say, sliding the bowl of pretzels his way. “But I have a suspicion she loved your fishing stories anyway. Just like she loved those terrible jokes you used to tell at karaoke.”

“Oh God,” he says, grabbing a pretzel. “You remember those?”

“Hard to forget. You’d grab that microphone after a few beers and turn Tuesday karaoke nights into your personal comedy hour.” I grin at the memory. “‘Why don’t fish play basketball? They’re afraid of the net.’ That one was my personal favorite.”

He laughs. “Helen always groaned at that one. Said if she had to hear it one more time, she’d hide the microphone.”

“But she never did.” I give him a quick wink before turning to help the couple just approaching the bar.

Seven years at the Black Lantern and I’ve learned that remembering the small things matters more than perfect pours.

It’s a gift Susan Midnight taught me, back when I was twenty-one and desperate, using my parents’ life insurance money to buy this place from her.

“Every person who walks through that door,” she used to say, “is carrying something heavy. We get to make it lighter, even if it’s just for one drink. ”

Now, The Black Lantern is the kind of place families come for nachos and burgers at five, kids sprawled on the floor with our board games while their parents steal a moment to actually finish a conversation.

It’s also the kind of place where everyone wants to be on a summer Friday night. A place where everyone’s welcome.

Tonight, we’re packed with locals seeking comfort, weekenders up from Seattle looking for small-town charm, and me trying to be exactly what each of them needs.

“Order up!” Jayson calls from the kitchen.

“Kitchen closed thirty minutes ago,” I remind him, not looking up from the gin and tonic I’m building.

“Corner booth special!”

I turn and spot Eleanor in her usual corner.

She must have slipped in when I was in the storage room.

She was one of my first regulars when I bought this place seven years ago and she still comes in most Fridays, always with a romance novel.

Tonight she’s deep in a paperback with a shirtless Viking on the cover, completely absorbed.

I finish the G&T I’m making and deliver it to the waiting customer, then pour Eleanor’s chardonnay and grab the bowl from the pass, smiling at the extra oyster crackers Jayson piled on the side. We all have a soft spot for Eleanor.

I make my way through the bar, under the exposed beams twinkling with miniature bulb lights I hung myself. The walls hold curated local art alongside Susan’s photos of Dark River through the decades, photos she collected over twenty years while the bar was hers.

“Special delivery,” I say, setting the bowl and wine down in front of Eleanor. “Chowder to go with your wine.”

She looks up from her book, delighted. “That sweet boy. Though I did just come for a drink tonight.”

“Sure you did.” I grin as she reaches for the crackers. I’ve always loved Eleanor’s weekly book reports. “Vikings this week?”

“Vikings who time travel,” she says, showing me the cover. “Lots of, um... sword fighting lessons.”

“Of course there are,” I say.

“Chapter twelve was quite educational,” she says with a perfectly straight face, making me laugh.

“Eleanor, you’re terrible.”

“I’m seventy-three, honey. I’m allowed.” She winks. “Now go on, dear. Don’t waste your Friday night on me.”

I smile, leaving her to her Vikings.

Back at the bar, Lark slides past. “What’s Eleanor reading tonight?”

“Vikings. Chapter twelve is apparently quite something.”

“That woman is my hero,” Lark says. She grabs fresh glasses while I wipe down a sticky spot near the tap. “Seventy-three and still reading smut in public.”

I laugh, pulling a new beer. “Last week she told me about a book where a pirate spent eight chapters ‘interrogating’ his captive duchess. Very thorough questioning, apparently.”

“God,” Lark says, “I hope I’m her when I grow up.”

“Same.”

We work in tandem, the kind of synchronized dance that comes from five years of friendship forged in late nights and difficult customers.

“Mare,” she says, wiping down the bar, “when’s the last time you went on an actual date? And I don’t mean serving drinks to someone who thinks tipping twenty percent is flirting.”

“I thought men were officially canceled?” I tease.

“Eleanor’s Vikings are making me reconsider.” She grins, then turns serious. “But really, Mare. When?”

“I had coffee with that teacher,” I remind her. “Remember? Craig?”

“Six months ago. Didn’t he spend twenty minutes explaining why his ex-wife was ‘literally crazy’ for wanting him to remember their anniversary.”

I nod. “Red flag much?” I check the garnish station—we’re running low on lime wedges. “Anyway, dating isn’t really a priority right now. I’ve got the bar, Susan needs me more these days, and I’m happy enough.”

“Happy enough.” Lark repeats my phrase like it tastes bad. “Mare, you’re twenty-eight and gorgeous. You’re so busy taking care of everyone else, you forgot that you’re allowed to want things, too.”

“I want things,” I say, grabbing fresh limes and my cutting board.

“Like what? Besides trying to write in that notebook you think is well hidden beneath the register?”

“How dare you snoop,” I say, mock-scandalized, starting to slice.

She grabs a cherry from the garnish tray and pops it in her mouth. “Please, you’re not exactly subtle about it. You left it open earlier this week. All those crossed-out lines. What are you trying to write?”

I give her a look. “Maybe it’s poetry about how annoying my coworkers are.”

“Liar.” She steals another cherry. “You’re trying to write about a life and love you never let yourself have.”

I hate when she’s right. “That’s very presumptuous.”

She grins, unrepentant. “And very accurate.”

I roll my eyes as my phone buzzes against my hip. I ignore it at first—I’m mid-slice—but it buzzes again. Then again. I set down the knife, wipe my hands on my apron, and pull it out. The name on the screen stops me cold.

Patricia (Hospice): She’s asking for you

Patricia (Hospice): Vitals dropping

Patricia (Hospice): I don’t know how much time she has

The bar noise continues around me, but something inside goes still and quiet. I take a breath and let it out slowly.

“Mare?” Lark’s voice, concerned. “You okay?”

I’m already untying my apron, folding it neatly despite my shaking hands. “Susan needs me. I have to go.”

“Shit,” Lark says “Go. I’ve got this.”

I hand her my keys, touch her shoulder briefly. “Damn. The Southpaw special for tomorrow—”

“Two parts Maker’s, one part cherry liqueur, three dashes of bitters, orange peel twisted left. I’ll make sure we have everything prepped.” She squeezes my hand. “Go.”

The milelong path from the bar to the cabins on the Midnight property curves through Douglas firs that block out most of the moonlight.

The mid July night carries a Pacific Northwest chill that shouldn’t exist this time of year.

It’s been an unseasonably cool July—the kind of summer that had locals grumbling and tourists yapping about wanting their money back.

I’ve walked this path a thousand times, but tonight the trees lean in like they’re offering shelter or witness.

I feel completely present, completely aware.

I know every root, every pothole, every turn.

Ten years living in the Midnight family cabins will do that.

Ten years walking this path, first as Susan’s tenant, then as something more like family.

Her five sons—the Midnight boys as everyone calls them—all walked this same path growing up.

Only Theo, Alex, and Dominic still do. Jack is all over the world these days racing in Formula 1, and Calvin is too busy being a moody literary icon to make the three-hour drive from Seattle.

The main house looms first, a Victorian hulk of weathered shingles and fading grandeur.

Susan had been struggling with the stairs for a while, but it was the storm last year that finally drove her out, when a tree came down on the roof.

Her sons tried to push renovations so she could move back in, but it only upset her and left her more confused.

She was happier in the cabin connected to mine.

For a year now the big house has stood empty—windows dark, paint peeling—yet it still carries a kind of weary dignity. Waiting.

Beyond it, Susan’s cabin glows with warm light, Patricia’s shadow moving behind the curtains. My own cabin sits dark.