“I want you to tell me why my best friend—and my sister—are acting like someone pissed in their beers,” he says, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to crack.
I grab the brush again, turning back to the wall. “Maybe it’s something at the brewery. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel like talking today. Not everything’s a crisis.”
Jason huffs out a laugh that’s more frustration than humor. “Right. And maybe I was born yesterday.”
I roll another stroke of blue onto the wall, the bristles leaving perfect, even lines, and pretend I don’t feel his stare boring into the side of my face. “Believe what you want, Jason.”
“I do believe what I want,” he says, pushing off the counter and pacing a few slow steps behind me. “And right now I believe something’s going on with you and Ben, and you’re both too stubborn to admit it.”
The paintbrush stills in my hand. My shoulders tense, but I force myself to dip the brush again, like I’m completely unaffected. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination.”
“It’s not imagination. I’ve known him half my life, and I’ve known you your whole damn life. You’re both walking around like somebody set your houses on fire, and I’m supposed to believe it’s just coincidence?”
I glance over my shoulder, giving him a tight smile. “Yes. You’re supposed to believe that because I’m telling you it is.”
Jason narrows his eyes, like he’s measuring me, trying to decide if pushing will get him anywhere. “So you didn’t fight?”
“No.”
“I’m just exploring all avenues,” he replies, leaning back against the counter again.
I set the brush down deliberately, turning to face him fully. “Here’s the thing, Jason: you’re my brother, and I love you, butyou don’t get to play detective in my life. Stop ‘exploring the avenues’ or whatever. If Ben’s in a mood, that’s between him and whoever pissed him off. It’s not my job to keep tabs on his feelings. Andifthat person’s me, then it’s between me and my landlord, not you.”
He stares at me, mouth working like he’s about to argue, but then he lets out a sharp breath and lifts his hands in surrender. “Fine. Whatever. Keep your secrets.”
“I don’t have secrets,” I say, though we both know that’s a lie.
“Right.” His tone is dry as he pushes away from the counter and heads for the door.
When his hand closes on the knob, he pauses and glances back. “If you see him before I do, tell him to get his head out of his ass. He’s got customers who actually like him, and it’s bad for business when he’s glowering at them.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” I say, already picking the brush back up.
The bell jingles when he leaves, leaving the quiet behind. I press the bristles to the wall and start painting again, but my chest feels tight, my ears still ringing with Jason’s suspicion.
I don’t let myself look out the window toward the brewery, but every brushstroke feels like a battle to keep my focus where it belongs—on the color in front of me, and not on the man next door who’s apparently just as bad at pretending as I am.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben
The bar finally empties out, but it’s not soon enough. My head’s been pounding since the moment I woke up this morning, and every minute after that just made it worse. Too much noise, too much small talk, too much pretending I’m fine when all I’ve wanted all damn day is to get the hell out of here.
I toss the rag onto the bar and wave at the last guy lingering by the door. He gives me a lazy salute before stepping out into the night, and I lock up behind him, flipping the sign. The silence hits hard, a little too loud in my ears.
Paige was next door all day—I knew it. I didn’t have to see her to know. I could feel it in the back of my mind like static, likea hum under my skin. I could’ve gone over there during the lull midafternoon. Could’ve made up some bullshit excuse about checking on the wiring or the lease or whatever. But I didn’t. I stayed behind the bar, busying myself with taps and inventory and customers.
At one point, Jason swung by, grabbing a beer before heading out. He was in a decent mood at first, but the longer he sat there, the more his smile faded. He asked me what my problem was, why I was acting like I’d swallowed glass, and I brushed him off with some crap about being tired. The look he gave me said he didn’t buy it.
And why would he? I’m standing there, lying straight to my best friend’s face, knowing the reason for my foul mood is the one thing I can never tell him. The guilt sat in my gut like lead for the rest of the night.
Truth is, I’m a coward.
I grab my keys, my jacket, shut down the last of the lights, and head out the back door into the cool night air. My shoulders ache from the long day, but it’s nothing compared to the knot in my gut. Disgust at myself sits heavy, sour.
When I round the corner toward my truck, my eyes flick automatically to the bakery windows. No light. Not even a soft glow in the back. She’s gone.
I tell myself she probably just turned in early. She’s been working nonstop. But I know better. If she had early-morningprep tomorrow, she’d still be in there now, music low, hair pulled back, paintbrush in hand. She’s not there because she doesn’t want to give me the chance to wander in again. Doesn’t want to see me.
