Page 6 of Promise Me

“No way,” I whisper out loud to no one.

Did Mrs. Whittaker finally decide to sell her store?

That old woman swore she’d die in that place.

“Linc!” I call out. He glances at me and grins.

“Linc!” a much higher, yet sweeter, voice calls out at the same time.

In seconds, Linc is standing in front of the storefront that separates my bar from Sadie’s bakery. That same spot also put him right between me and his little sister, who glares at me as if my presence has ruined her day.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“I’m ready to make an offer,” I say at the same time.

“No. That’s not how that works,” Sadie scolds me and crosses her arms.

“How what works?” I snap. “It looks like Mrs. Whittaker is selling, and I want to buy it, so making an offer is exactly howitworks.”

Sadie rolls her eyes before sliding her gaze to her brother.

Linc is 100 percent pretending that neither Sadie nor I are standing next to him.

To his credit, most of the town behaves this way when she and I are near one another.

The woman hates me, and fuck all if I know why.

Growing up, I was at her house just as much as I was at my own. Her mom was a second mother to me. We had movie nights, pet funerals, broken limbs, countless birthday parties among Sadie, Linc, me, my two brothers and little sister, and more. I was even there when she learned to drive. Butsomewhere in all that time, she decided she was going to hate me for the rest of our lives.

Maybe it was because I dated her best friend in high school.

“I’m simply putting the sign up in the window. That’s all,” Linc says, unlocking the door.

Sadie and I both move to follow him, but he steps back and shoves us out.

“Neither of you are invited inside.”

“You don’t need to put up a sign. I’ll take it,” I say again, this time in a tone I hope conveys my point.

“No. I’m taking it.” Sadie steps in front of me. She’s facing her brother, but her petite five-foot-five form is nothing compared to my six feet. I can see over the top of her head and am staring right at her brother.

“I’m your sister,” she says sweetly.

I chuckle. “The bank doesn’t care about family.”

She spins so quickly that her golden blonde hair whips me in the neck.

“I’m sorry we can’t all have bank accounts like you, Mr. Rich Retired Hockey Player, but some of us have dreams, okay? And mine includes this storefront.”

Her arm juts out to point at the empty space.

“For what? The dry-ass donuts you make or the subpar lemon bars I have to choke down with a beer?”

She gasps, stomps her foot, and then growls.

I would laugh if I didn’t think she was ten seconds away from slapping me.

“I’m buying this space, so just back off,” she warns me.

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