“I am.” A small, genuine smile lights up her face. “I even made it up the stairs and back down without stopping. Too bad it can’t be like that every day.”
The knot in my shoulders loosens. “That’s good.”
Fifteen years ago, her relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis diagnosis felt manageable—flare-ups that came and went. But two years ago, secondary progressive MS became part of the conversation, and now the losses keep stacking up. Fumbling with her keys. Stairs. Long walks. Her independence doesn’t vanish all at once—it erodes, one small, ordinary moment at a time.
She studies me over the rim of her reading glasses. “You look like you slept in your clothes.”
“I did not.” Her eyebrow arches higher. “Not all of them. I managed to take my jeans off,” I amend.
“Did you at least make it to your bed?”
“If bed means couch, then yes.” I flash her a cheerful smile that convinces absolutely no one.
She exhales—the long, seasoned sigh only mothers can deliver—then narrows her eyes. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“What did you eat?”
“Granola.” She stares at me. “Straight out of the bag. It paired beautifully with my cold coffee.”
“And eight hours of sleep?”
“Five is the new eight. I’m pretty sure I slept like a brick.”
She points the pen at me. “That’s not the selling point you think it is.”
Even though I’m the one who should be taking care of her, she still worries about me first. I stroll into the kitchen and restock her fridge with water from the case on the floor. “You have an appointment Thursday. I’ll drive you.”
“I know. You always do.”
After closing the door, I whirl around. “Did you go through your mail? Anything important?”
“Only if you think three credit card pre-approvals and a tree stump removal flyer are important.” She shrugs.
“The tree stumps haven’t lived their full stumpy life yet.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
I feed the junk mail through the shredder and head back into the living room. “I should get to work. I’ll text you on my break.”
She studies me as if she’s committing every detail—my posture, my energy, the way exhaustion hangs off me—to memory. “Don’t forget you matter too, Nora.”
I flash her my practiced smile. The one that says I’m fine even when I’m tapped out. “I know. I always have you to remind me.” Bending down, I press a kiss to her cheek, the faint scent of lavender lotion clinging to her skin. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.”
The second I step into Porter’s, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and immediately freeze. “Shit.”
A pharmacy reminder flashes across the screen. I knew I was forgetting something this morning. Guilt blooms hot and immediate in my chest. I shove the phone back into my pocket. Tomorrow. First thing.
After tossing my bag into my locker, I glance toward the closed office door. Jake never shuts that door unless someone’s getting fired. Thankfully, it’s not me on the other side. I exhale and head for the bar. Rylee is halfway inside one of the coolers counting inventory, the cold air spilling out around her. Lach stands at the prep station slicing lemons for drinks.
A moment later, Jake rounds the corner into the main bar, but my attention snaps to the man behind him. Tall. Dark. Tattooed. He’s the kind of hot that should require a warning label. He moves with a swagger dripping with confidence. His mouth curves into a smile, but his eyes are the real problem as they land on me and linger. I just spontaneously combusted.
“Nora. This is Beckett,” Jake says, gesturing at the thirst trap beside him. “He’s filling in some shifts. You’re training him.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Lucky me. I extend my hand. He takes it. His palm is warm and firm, but my attention goes to the whiskey and oak scent that clings to him. It’s rich and a tad mysterious. Training him is definitely not going to be a hardship.
