She smiles, slow and knowing. “I suppose that only leaves you with one question left to ask.”
I huff a breath, amused despite myself.
I step closer, then lower myself onto one knee.
The world seems to pause.
“Amber Price,” I say, taking her hands in mine, “will you marry me?”
She laughs, eyes shining. “Yes. Again.”
I stand and pull her into my arms, pressing my forehead to hers, and kiss her until we’re both out of breath.
Then I kiss her some more.
Because she’s mine.
My gem.
Now and forever.
25
AMBER
Seven years later, Isle’s Gem is running so smoothly I almost forget how hard it was to get to this point. Almost.
It’s one of those nights where everything is in harmony. The music is at the perfect volume, the crowd is lively without being obnoxious, and my bartenders are moving like they’ve been doing this their whole lives instead of, in one case, exactly four months. I drift between tables, answering questions, laughing at jokes I’ve definitely heard before, intercepting problems before they have time to become actual problems.
A woman near the window flags me down, annoyed about her seat wobbling. I crouch, adjust it, give the table a quick test, and by the time I stand back up she’s thanking me like I’ve performed a small miracle. At the bar, someone’s arguing about whether their drink is technically a Manhattan. I settle it with a smile and a free cherry. Peace is restored.
This is what I’m good at: reading the room, smoothing the edges, making people feel taken care of without letting them walk all over me.
The bar was Giovanni’s gift. The name gives him away. I was so happy when he gave it to me for our first anniversary, I broke down crying right on the porch, like a little girl at Christmas.
It was just the building at the time. An old bait shop ready to be repurposed just in the style I loved. Giovanni offered to deal with everything: bureaucracy, investments, all the nitty-gritty.
But I said no. I wanted to do the hard work. To make it mine.
I chose the vendors, fought for the permits, figured out marketing through trial, error, and one deeply regrettable promotional slogan. I trained the bartenders myself, drilled into them that confidence matters as much as skill, and that listening is half the job.
Right now, I’m standing behind the bar next to Maya, our newest hire, watching her build a cocktail.
“Easy on the pour,” I say. “You want generous, not reckless. There’s a difference. One that usually ends up splashing clients on the cuffs.”
She nods, adjusts, and sets the glass down. “Like this?”
“That’s better.” I offer her an encouraging grin. “You’ll be running the place in no time.”
“I doubt that.” She laughs. “But thanks. You’re very patient. The last boss I had threw a shot glass at me whenever I messed up an order.”
“Then he missed out on an excellent bartenderandperfectly good equipment.”
Maya’s grin grows. Then her eyes flick to the small photo frame near the register. “Oh my God, are those your kids? They’re adorable!”
“They know,” I say fondly. “That’s Pearl on the left. She’s six and already running the household. Ruby’s five. Curious to a fault. And Diamond is three and believes rules are suggestions.”
Maya laughs. “How do you do this and have kids?”
