Speakeasy (True North #5)(70)

It’s six o’clock already, and Alec is probably at work. I don’t expect to get a response. But my phone rings about two minutes later. The caller says Alec.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm in my ear. “Audrey was my informant. But I chose those magazines myself. Two of them have competing theories about Brad Pitt’s latest breakup. So I’m gonna need you to sort that out for me. And I need to know what that statistic on the cover of Cosmo is referring to.”

“Which thing?” I pull the magazine out of the pile and scan the headlines. One of them is, 32% of Chicks Do This Shocking Thing In Bed. “Thirty-two percent of chicks, huh? I’m totally reading that first. What if the answer is—other chicks?”

I can actually hear his smile. “Then you can read the good parts out loud to me.”

“You know I would.” We both laugh, and for a second it feels easy between us again.

“Also?” His deep voice vibrates inside my chest. “Don’t skip the article about the butt facial. I need to know the benefits so I can decide whether or not to work it into my beauty routine.”

“Gotcha. Will do.” I’m smiling into the phone like a crazy person, because Alec always makes me smile. I wish I could see into the future. If there’s a happy life with Alec in it, then I could stop being so afraid of wrecking everything.

“How’s your pain?” he asks.

Nothing that an entire bottle of wine wouldn’t fix. “It’s all right. I have my best friend, the ibuprofen bottle, right here with me.”

“Glad to hear it. Call me if you need anything, okay? I’d better get back to work.”

“Have a good night.”

“You too, babydoll.”

We hang up with no more discussion. No promises made. And no plans.

I want more, if only I could find a way to take it.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





Alec


The next day I send May roses. The card says, Thinking of you. All the time. That’s one hundred percent true.

But I’m also busy as hell trying to straighten my shit out. I call Connor and tell him I can increase his hours, and he’s pretty happy about that. Except he can only give me two more nights a week, because he has a restaurant job he doesn’t want to drop.

I can’t fire Smitty yet until I find at least one other bartender to rotate in. Also, Christmas is in a week, so I am going to have trouble finding people to interview. But I don’t want Smitty working without me on shift, which means I’m putting in a lot of hours behind the bar.

A few days have passed since Hamish’s funeral, so I leave a message for Tad. I invite him to call me when he’s ready to discuss the future of the property next door.

The next day my phone rings when I’m standing in the unfinished room at the back corner of the Gin Mill—the one that’s supposed to become a commercial kitchen.

Right now it’s empty except for an industrial sink, my carboys, and some home-brew equipment. I’m checking the fermentation temperature when Tad finally returns my call.

“Hello, Alec,” he says. “What did you want to discuss?”

“I know you’re probably not thinking about this yet, and that’s fine,” I say. “But your father and I had agreed on a price for the mill building. He was going to sell it to me next year sometime.”

“I know nothing of this,” Tad says immediately.

Yeah, I was afraid of that. “Okay,” I say calmly. “I thought that could be the case. Just don’t lose my number when you’re ready to sell, okay? Because I’m definitely interested, and I saved all the correspondence between me and your dad, if you want to take a look.”

“I already have some people who are looking to pay a nice price.”

My heart sinks. I was afraid of that, too. “How much?”

“It’s not quite final yet.”

Ah. At least they haven’t reached a deal. “Keep me in the loop, okay? It’s important to me.”

“All right. Thanks for helping out with the wake.”

Helping out. Tad makes me want to throw my phone into a wall. “No problem, man,” I say instead.

We hang up and I look around the room at my brew stuff. It looks like child’s play. I can’t compete with Giltmaker, and I can’t afford to invest too heavily in beermaking.

But it’s fun to think about. I snag the Brewmaster’s Catalogue off my work table and take it upstairs with me. Some guys get off on shopping for golf equipment or new cars. Me? I lust after airlocks and immersion chillers.

Alone in my apartment, I do fifty pushups while my printer spits out every email where Hamish and I ever discussed the building. I don’t want to be a dick to Tad, but I’m curious whether my negotiations have any weight in the future of the mill next door.

I think I know a way to figure that out. But first, pushups.

Every time I lower myself to the rug I see Bukowski’s evil eyes peering at me from beneath the coffee table. He looks as cranky as I feel. And when I hook my feet under the couch for some ab curls, he scampers off to hide.

After I get some exercise, I’m feeling less cranky. So I take a drive over to the law offices of Kaplan and Shipley.

When I get there, the receptionist’s desk is empty already. I walk on through to another room with two desks. May’s is vacant, as I knew it would be. But the opposite desk is taken up by an older woman with curly hair. She’s wearing a phone headset and saying, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” At the same time, she’s knitting something from purple yarn.