Speakeasy (True North #5)(57)

“Yeah.” I sigh. I did make that speech. “It’s just...life is short, you know? He wanted to go to Costa Rica.”

“That sucks. But he did what he loved.” Benito’s gesture takes in the display of Hamish’s work I’d set up earlier.

“Sure. You’re right,” I say just to end the conversation. Hamish had a job he’d loved. But the man had also seemed lonely.

Or maybe I’m just projecting. The last three evenings I’ve worked elbow to elbow with May as she helped me get this place ready. I’ve been friend-zoned, apparently.

Right now she’s at the other end of the crowded room helping a couple of Hamish’s friends set up their instruments for a bluegrass jam session. And from twenty paces away, I still feel the pull. She has three retired musicians in her thrall right now. They’re looking at her like she hung the moon. And I don’t blame them.

Tonight we’re supposed to celebrate Hamish’s life. But I’d rather cross the room, take May’s hand, pull her outside and celebrate by kissing her until she realizes how good we are together.

“You have royalty at your party,” Benito says. “Look.”

“Royalty?” He nudges me and then I see what he means—Lyle, the owner of the Giltmaker Brewery, is in the corner talking to Uncle Otto. “Oh, fuck. I guess he and Hamish were pals. Hamish might have said something about that once. Goldenpour was his favorite beer.”

“It’s a lot of people’s favorite beer,” Benito points out.

“Yeah, but get this—I asked Chelsea if she could get me an extra keg for the wake. Full price, by the way. I wasn’t asking for a donation. And Lyle said no.”

“Yet here he is?” Benito snorts. “Nice guy.”

“Right? Jesus. I ended up donating all the beer and wine.” Not to mention the cups, napkins, and many hours of my time. My sister and Audrey made a bunch of finger food. And Griffin donated a keg of Shipley Cider. “You know that Hamish’s kid let me throw this thing? He didn’t bring a thing except himself.” I’ve been ignoring his selfish ass all evening.

“Did you ask him to?”

“No,” I grunt. He’s right. Tad’s lack of assistance is all on me. “I’m in the worst fucking mood in the history of moods.”

My brother grins. “Even worse than Zara with PMS? Even worse than Otto when the Patriots lose?”

“Pretty much. Go on, get a drink.” I give him a friendly shove. “Save yourself. I have people to thank, anyway.”

Benito meanders away, and a minute later I see him talking to Jill from his high school class. The Rossi brothers aren’t above looking for hookups at a funeral. We are made of class.

The band starts up, and when I scan the room, I’m looking for May. Later I’m going to get her alone. It’s been a little awkward between us since our little chat at my place. But I know I can get us back to where we were before I tried to change the rules. I’ll tell her it’s okay if it’s only sex, and then I’ll give her a chance to realize we’re more than that.

I can be very persuasive.

But I can’t seem to spot her anywhere. I only see her brother. And since I need to thank him for the cider, I start heading over in his direction. Hamish had a lot of friends, and the place is crowded with them. By the time I get close to Griffin, he’s standing with Lyle from Giltmaker and my uncle Otto.

Something makes me pull up short as I approach them. I think it’s Lyle’s gesticulating toward the corner of the big room. “Tad wants to sell quickly,” he says. “So I’ll need to do some fast work on permitting.”

My whole body goes cold.

“We’d put the tanks at one end and the serving counter at the other. Gotta check the rules about expanding next to the river, though. I dunno if we could cut down any trees for more parking.”

“This is an historic building,” Griffin adds. “You’d have to take care to preserve most of the place.”

“I’ll get an architect in here next week,” Lyle says. “I’ll see what he says. Maybe it’s not a travesty to blow out one end of the place.”

That’s all I can stand. “Excuse me. Are you talking about this building?”

Three heads swivel in my direction. My uncle’s lip curls, because I’m sure he doesn’t like my tone. But fuck it.

“It’s a private conversation,” Lyle says. That cagey bastard. I want to slug him.

“This is my nephew,” Otto says. “Alec Rossi.”

“The bar owner,” Lyle says, and I swear to god his eyes narrow.

“Next door,” I add, in case it’s not clear.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Lyle’s his tone suggests it’s not at all a pleasure.

“Tad didn’t tell me he was in a hurry to sell,” I say, hoping someone will enlighten me.

“Might happen,” Otto says lightly.

“You know Hamish isn’t even in the ground yet, right?” I ask. “Think you can hold your bulldozers off until Father Peters tosses the first fistful of dirt?”

“Alec,” Griffin Shipley says with a chuckle. “That’s a little…”

“A little what?” I bark. “True?” Everyone thinks Griffin is so fucking high-minded. But I know the truth. Griffin’s father fired mine, and then I never saw him again. It shouldn’t be terribly surprising that his son would be the same kind of cutthroat businessman. “Thank you for donating cider tonight,” I growl. “I’m sure Hamish would have appreciated the gesture.”