Page 101 of Long Shot

“This place is small potatoes for her. It was only ever going to be temporary.”

“I guess.”

“Do your best, okay? We’re relying on you to keep things going.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I go back to my office. Beck is behind the bar, stocking the fridge with beers. Marco and Danny are in the walk-in doing inventory. It’s Christmas Eve. We agreed we’ll close for Christmas Day this year, to spend time with family, and since we don’t have a chef, it’s one less day to worry about how to make the menu items she created, without her.

I blow out a long breath as I sit in my chair. Just when things were going so well . . .shit.

We’ll get back on track. We always do. We’ve all overcome bigger problems than this.

Instead of seeing the spreadsheet on my computer screen, I’m picturing Reese. Laughing at the beach when Jack learned how to surf. Beaming when she created something amazing and delicious, and people loved her food. So excited the day that blogger reviewed the restaurant, but not taking all the credit even though she deserved it. Breathless and smiling the day we played tourist and I took her to Sea World, and she patted a dolphin’s head while feeding it smelly fish. When I told her about my bike accident and how it impacted me—not laughing or belittling me, just accepting it.

I thought she probably felt sorry for me, but in truth, she didn’t seem to pity me. She was sympathetic, yes, but understanding and supportive. Reassuring.

Not pitying.

I rub my eyes and try to focus again on business. I have bills to pay, expenses to track.

My head jerks up when the office door slams shut.

Carrie.

I frown. “Hey, Care. What’s up?”

“You’re an idiot.” She points at me, advancing into the office. “Are you going to let her go?”

“Uh . . .” Probably not much point in asking who she’s talking about. “Don’t think I have much choice. She made her decision.”

“She doesn’t want to leave!”

I scowl at her. “How the hell do you know?”

“Because I’m a woman.”

I squint at her. “That makes no sense.”

“Yes, it does.” She plants her hands on my desk and leans in. “I’ve been through this myself.”

“Right.” Marco mentioned that, too—when Carrie was planning to move to Spain to study photography. It was a dream of hers . . . apparently. Or maybe not, because she changed her mind, but she didn’t tell Marco that, and he went chasing after her when he thought she was moving to Spain for nine months.

“She’s in love with you,” Carrie states. “And I think you love her.”

I lift an eyebrow. “I think I know how I feel.”

“No, you don’t.” She stares me down. “You don’t have feelings, do you?”

I scowl. “What the hell?”

“You pretend you don’t have feelings. You shut them down. I know you had a rough life.”

Yeah, my family background came out in some discussions with my friends. I never share a lot about it, but apparently enough that Carrie thinks she knows what I went through.

“I get why you do it,” she continues. “But you do have feelings. You and Marco and Beck are like brothers. You’d give your life for them if you had to.”

I stare at her. I can’t deny that.

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