It took everything within me not to chuck this avocado at his face. His very chiseled and beautiful face.
“Mmmhmm, and what does a fancy French pastry chef know about cooking for a bar?” he asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “How did you know I was a French-trained pastry chef?”
“First of all you told me.” He held up his phone. “Secondly Facebook, you’re a long way from New York City, doll.”
Crap. He must have a secret account. How did he know my last name? My eyes went to where I kept my purse last night under the bar. He’d looked at my ID! Who was the stalker now!?
“I’m an expert in pastry, but I’m an amazing cook too,” I told him with pride. “I learned from the best.”
He shrugged, as if he didn’t care that he literally had a goddess of the kitchen right before him. I wanted to claw my eyes out and then beat him with them. Everything about him infuriated me and I didn’t really know why. It annoyed me that he was so good looking, it annoyed me that he was smoking with my dead husband’s heart in his chest, and itreallyfucking annoyed me when I was losing my shit and he was so calm.
“How long before you sign the papers?” I crossed my arms around the basket in front of me, gripping it like a life raft in raging waters.
He gave me an annoyed expression. “I dunno, like a day. I just gotta talk to my Gran and then my real estate agent is coming by tomorrow night.”
Panic gripped me. I couldn’t just let him lose the bar and leave him a smoking, drinking mess with no business. Why did he need to talk to his Gran? Did she co-own the place?
“Give me seven days,” I begged. “Give me seven days and I’ll prove we can save this place. It could be amazing.”
I held out my hand for him to shake and he just stared at it like it was made of fire. “We?” He laughed.
I nodded. “I’ll help you every step of the way. I’ll craft a new menu, talk to vendors to get some craft beer. Live music would really—”
“Are you insane?” His eyes bugged. “I said no. I gotta accept the offer soon or they’ll walk.”
“Seven days!” I shouted, ignoring him as I turned, leaving the veggies on the counter and walking back to my car.
“Woman! Did you hear me? I said no. Where are you going?” he screamed after me.
“To save your motherfucking bar!” I roared back over my shoulder.
I’d been so lost without Colin. This project was exactly what I needed. A purpose.
* * *
You knowthe best part about Nashville? It’s full of starving musicians, hungry for their big break.
So I had an idea. A wild idea.
I went to the printer shop and had flyers made up, advertising that Wayne’s Place was looking for a new headlining act to play nightly. That we were hosting a showcase audition and the crowd would vote. Then, on a whim, I typed two very dangerous words.
Free Beer.
Quickly adding *While supplies last, in fine print.
Ashton was going to kill me, but if he was selling the place anyway, he’d need to get rid of all those bottles, right? I’d set the date for Saturday night, which gave me five days to work on the menu and other things.
I’d officially started charging things to my credit card. One thousand flyers wasn’t cheap, nor were the ten rolls of duct tape I got to tape them up around the city.
It was at about 1 p.m., when I’d dropped off my last stack of flyers at a local hookah joint, that I admitted to myself I was probably losing my mind a little.
This wasn’t healthy. I felt myself unraveling with each step I took toward trying to save this bar.
Saving Ashton, saving this bar, it wouldn’t bring Colin back.
I was too chickenshit to call my therapist, knowing he would absolutely tell me to fly home, or suggest putting me on meds or something.
