Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Geoffrey nods in agreement but doesn’t say anything while continuing to scan the less than empty building.
I’m not entirely sure why the owners before us abruptly bailed on their bar. Nix isn’t aware, either, although he says he’s looked into it. The biggest benefit of the unexpectedly left piece of property is that whoever is renting out the space is willing to include all the shite that’s still here at no additional cost. Tables, chairs, bar equipment that can be repurposed or refurnished and used. Not top of the line stoves or dishwasher yet still better than the average hole in the wall.
“I really like it,” my official business partner nods once more. “However, it takes two to sign the paperwork.” His gaze swings to me. “Thoughts?”
Not ones he wants to hear.
I don’t regret going into a legal agreement with him. We’ve spent an adequate amount of time together over the past few months both for work and for fun. He had a solid plan before I came along and almost all his pints in order. Sometimes I wonder if I’m really bringing anything other than more money to the table – money that was pooled together by my uncles in Ireland to invest in what they all believe to be my big dream.
Bloody hell, I didn’t even think I had a dream until Harper carved away the resistance of having one like she was shucking a fucking oyster. And there’s no resentment for her giving a fuck about me…about all of me. It was just unexpected.
Everything with Harper, though, seems to fall in that category.
It’s like having won the literal lottery every day I wake up.
Only one thing is missing.
And that one thing is the one reason I’m still dragging my feet here.
What if us starting this pub delays me starting a family?
Seeing her swollen with our baby?
Holding him in her arms?
Me holding them?
What if this choice ruins the possibility for that one?
Harper would never make me choose, but I want her to know I’m responsible enough that I don’t need to be told when to do the right thing.
An uncomfortable twinge kicks at the base of my neck encouraging me to give it a squeeze.
Fuck, I’m overthinking everything again.
I need a moment to truly vibe the situation out.
Find that instinct Uncle Rory stressed I listen to when making any decision going forward not because he was worried about me blowing all their money but for fear of me living with too many regrets, claiming regret can poison the pint of life almost as badly as fear itself.
Giving my work uniform tie a loosen, I state to Nix, “Meet me at the bar.”
The well-built realtor doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t object. Simply strolls over slowly, watching me watch him.
“You’re going to behave like you’re a regular,” I instruct while making my way around to where I would be serving him. “Act like this place is up and running.” Sliding into position, I add, “Pretend we’re a couple years in and this is where you go when you need that shot of home away from home.”
Nix parks his arse on the barstool, ready to play his role. “O’Clery.”
“Wagner.” Reaching for one of the small napkins is followed by a flick of the wrist trick that gets him to smirk. “Manhattan or martini tonight?”
His jaw drops in actual shock. “How the fuck did you know that’s what I drink?”
“You’re a regular,” I playfully remind, encouraging him to get back into character. “It’s my job to know. It’s what makes our pub a place you call home instead of just visit when the others are full.” Two steps backward allows me to reach for a dusty martini glass knowing both drinks are served in it. “Sloan working late?”
Doing his best to stay in character gets him casually nodding. “Yeah, but she’s supposed to meet me here in a few. Parents have the kid so we can have a date night.”
The teasing jab is given on a quirked eyebrow. “And you chose here?”
“Warm up drinks.”
“Martini it is.” I place the glass on the napkin with another sleight of wrist trick, chuckles lightly leaving me. “Gin or vodka tonight?”
“Lets go gin.”
“You finally close on the luxury cabin deal out in Applecourt?” My actions mimic the grabbing of mixing glass. The collecting of the gin. The momentary pause to top off an invisible person’s drink with a different booze before resuming the making of his. “Wasn’t some celebrity model looking at it?”
An impressed expression crosses his face; however, I’m uncertain if it’s from the scenario or watching me work. “She got cold feet.”
“Rather that than sully your good track record.”
The stirring of all of the “ingredients” receives a puzzled expression.
“You stir a real martini,” Geoffrey informs on his way over to join me behind the bar. “You do not want to bruise the gin.”