An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(13)
“Thirty-three, actually,” Elliot said, as though reading Max’s thoughts. Slowly, he placed his hand over Max’s, curling their fingers around the chip. His expression was not one of a doctor, but of a friend, kind and reassuring. “With the new year only days away, let this, your determination and strength, prove that happily-ever-afters are achievable, Max. This, right here, is a symbol of hope. It can happen. Even for you.”
Max knew the sentiment should have made him all warm and cozy inside, should have backhanded the fear and pessimism out of his head, from around his bruised and scarred heart, and although he was quietly proud that he held his month of struggle away from his friends and all he knew in his palm, he stubbornly shook his head.
“Thank you, but happily-ever-afters don’t exist for me, Doc,” he said quietly, lifting his head to meet Elliot’s stare. “With all the people I’ve lost in my life, I know that’s the real f*ckin’ truth.”
The bar Grace walked into was not what she expected.
Large windows and a glass door leading out to the back of the place, which would no doubt be incredible in the summer, illuminated the entire space. A fifties-style jukebox played blues, while the pool table and tables and booths of various shapes and sizes filled the rest of the high-ceilinged building. The scent of fries and draft beer clung to every inch of the place, bringing a nostalgic smile to Grace’s face.
From the front, the place couldn’t look less inviting with its dark wood paneling and faded sign declaring the name to be WHISKEY AND WINGS. During his visit, as they’d strolled past on their way to dinner, Kai had commented about the types of regulars a bar such as Whiskey and Wings would attract, and dragged her away by her elbow before she could do something else crazy.
Not to be discouraged, and determined to take control of her life for the first time in years, Grace had decided to embrace the interest in her gut and inquire about the help-wanted sign stuck haphazardly in the corner of the large, grubby window. It had been a while since she’d tended bar, but she’d enjoyed the laughs and the hustle and bustle, even though the job had led her to meet—
“Can I help you, honey?” The West Virginia drawl of the question curled around Grace like a warm hug.
The woman wiping glasses behind the bar was blonde, with a chest that would have every other female in the vicinity standing a little straighter and begging for the number of the store where she’d purchased her push-up. Her lined face was attractive in spite of the heavy-handed mascara and blush. She smiled as Grace approached, and put the glass down.
Grace took a deep breath and removed her woollen hat, her curls bouncing from its clutches. “Hi. I’d like to inquire about the sign.”
Blondie leaned the heels of her hands on the edge of the bar and blinked.
Grace swallowed. “The sign asking for help. What are the hours? I only need a couple of shifts a week, but—”
“You’re new around here, right?” Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally. Grace was getting used to the suspicious glances and questions expected in a town with a population fewer than ten thousand.
“Yeah. I’m staying at Masen’s Boardinghouse,” she answered. “I’ve been in town for—”
“You worked a bar before?”
“Um, yes. It’s been a while, but I tended when I was in college and my brother owns a bar in DC, which—”
“Be here on Monday, six thirty sharp.”
Grace blanched. “That’s— Monday is New Year’s Eve.”
Blink. “You got plans?”
No, but common sense knew that the place would be jammed. Filled with strangers.
Anxiety whispered over Grace’s chest. “I . . . no, that’s fine.”
“Good. I don’t know what shifts I’ll need you for after that, maybe every other day or night, maybe not, I need you to be flexible, but I sure as hell will need you Monday.” Deep blue eyes traveled down Grace’s body, taking in her winter boots, jeans, gloves, and thick jacket with a wry smile. “And wear something pretty.”
Grace looked down at herself. “Okay.”
“Knock it off, Holly.” A deep male voice came from the doorway. “She already looks pretty.”
The man was dressed in a police uniform: a dark shirt, tie, and khaki pants. He was tall and lean with wavy auburn hair and a well-groomed goatee that lifted when he smiled at her. He watched her for a beat before stepping forward with his hand out. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Caleb Yates. I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
Grace swallowed, nervous butterflies swarming her stomach. Ridiculous, she chastised herself. He’s a police officer. He’s no threat. And his blue eyes were safe and honest. She breathed deeply and smiled back, shaking his large hand. “I’m New-In-Town Grace Brooks.”
He laughed politely at her lame joke. “I’ve heard. You’ve caused quite a stir around here. We don’t get many new faces that stay longer than a vacation here in Preston County. You’ve bought the Baileys’ old place, right?”
He knew a lot, which immediately put Grace on edge. She fisted her hands together while her eyes darted past him toward the exit. The deputy badge on the left side of his chest knocked her around the head with a dose of calm-the-hell-down. Of course he knew about the house; he probably knew everyone’s business. That was his job.