An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(23)

“I don’t want to go back to my apartment,” Max stated. “I don’t want to go back to the city just yet.” Besides being too busy and loud for him to deal with, the place was filled to the f*cking brim with temptation, reeking of bad history and worse habits.

“I’ll support you no matter what you decide,” Tate said. “You know what you need better than anyone else. But make sure you’re making the decision to better yourself, not because you’re scared and running away.”

Max scoffed. “But I am scared,” he confessed. “I’m f*cking terrified.” His voice broke and he growled in exasperation. “I don’t want to let anyone down, or upset anyone. I’ve done too much of both in my life.”

“But this is about what’s best for you, Max,” Tate urged. “Nobody else. If you need to be selfish, be selfish! And believe me, your friends only want what’s best for you.”

Max fisted his hair. “I don’t want them to think I’m not grateful. I am. I just . . . need to be away from all of this for a while.” He sniffed. “I thought I’d started to find myself again, but now I feel more lost than when I f*cking started. I don’t know where I belong.”

Tate’s hand touched Max’s arm. “Then go and find out.”





The bar was as busy as expected for a game night. The banter and cursing had already begun in earnest as the Orioles fell behind by three, with beer and food being ordered in tandem with each pitch. Not that Grace minded. On the contrary, she’d grown to like the atmosphere of Whiskey’s, and the fact that many of the regulars had started to warm to her made it even better. They’d been wary for a while but, thankfully, Holly had been integral to Grace’s being accepted into the fray. It was laughable, really, but that was bar politics for you.

“Grace, can I have another draft, please?”

“Sure, Earl,” she answered with a smile. “You’re not watching the game?”

Earl lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. “Not this bunch of idiots,” he huffed. “Let me know when the Washington Nationals are playin’ and we’ll talk.”

“No problem,” Grace replied with a laugh as she placed Earl’s beer in front of him while simultaneously lifting his ten-dollar bill from the bar.

“Hey, pretty lady. How are you?” Grace smiled shyly at Caleb’s greeting as he sat himself down next to Earl at the bar and grabbed a handful of peanuts. She pulled a bottle of Heineken from the fridge and handed it to him.

“I’m good. And you?” She was constantly polite with the deputy; after all, he was a paying customer and he was always pleasant and charming enough. Nevertheless, Kai’s distaste for him on his last visit had planted a far from innocuous seed of caution in her belly. Despite Grace’s need to prove a point and be free in making her own decisions in life, her momma had always taught both her and Kai to listen to their guts. Not that her gut distrusted the deputy, of course, but she was guarded all the same.

Caleb grinned and dipped his head. “I’m just great. The Baileys’ place is looking mighty impressive. Shouldn’t be long before you’re in there, huh?”

Grace’s smile widened. It was true. The building was starting to look like a real, honest-to-God house. Floors were finished, as were the stairs, porch, and walls. Next week was all about the windows and Grace could barely contain her excitement.

“I can’t tell you how amazed I am at Vince’s work,” she replied. “His team is incredible and—”

“Did I hear my name?” Vince Masen, owner of Masen Construction and Masen’s Boardinghouse, smirked as he strode toward the bar. He was followed through the entrance by a group of six men whom Grace recognized as workers on the house. She’d seen them all before. Except one. “I hope you’re sayin’ nice things, Mrs. Brooks,” he drawled. “We’ve just finished up a twelve-hour day on your property.”

Grace blushed. “It’s Ms., or Grace, and of course I was. I was just telling the deputy here that your work and your team’s work has been nothing short of extraordinary. I’m more than grateful.”

Vincent Masen was a stocky man with a broad chest that spoke of years of labor and a head of salt-and-pepper hair that made him look distinguished. She guessed him to be in his midfifties but, from what she’d seen since his construction company had begun work on the house, he had the tenacity and the energy of a much younger man. He tilted his chin under her compliment and raised the glass of beer Grace paid for in thanks.

The rest of the guys bought a beer each and ordered food, all except the new face, who stayed at the back of the group, tall, silent, and watching Grace with intense brown eyes that were framed with thick lashes. His irises were so dark they appeared endless in their intensity, like two huge Hershey’s Kisses filled with untold secrets. The hair on his head was almost black in the dim light of the bar; it was short at the sides, but long and wild on top, with bits that stuck up as though caught by surprise. His face was hard around the edges and shadowed with stubble that looked a few days old. From the lines around his eyes and mouth, he was either a lot older than Grace imagined, or he’d had a tough life. Either way, his face was not entirely displeasing to look at. Rather like a disheveled Colin Farrell, Grace mused.