The one good thing about people getting wind of an establishment changing ownership was that they all wanted to stop in, check on the validity of the rumor, spending money in the process. Mack had yet to say a word, deflecting at every turn, but he figured that was about to change since Daniel had sent a text an hour ago letting him know he was coming for a visit with his Realtor friend in tow.
Mack wished like hell he could avoid the situation, but he’d long ago learned how well that turned out. He was in this mess because he’d convinced his ex-wife to keep his secret from his son, and in an effort to defend herself, she’d told Daniel as much. Looking back, he probably should’ve clued Daniel in himself. Perhaps then the boy wouldn’t have been so hard on him.
Oh, who was he kidding? The Daniel Mack knew now was not the same kid he’d spent every other weekend with. Somewhere along the way, the boy had shed his laid-back, all-American skin and turned into a … well, to be honest, he’d turned into an asshole of the highest order.
And yes, Mack loved the boy, would no matter what, but he wasn’t sure what had prompted his own flesh and blood to be so damn judgmental, so arrogant, so fucking demanding.
The door opened and Mack felt his shoulders knot as he waited to see the face once the glare from the setting sun disappeared. He relaxed when he realized it wasn’t Daniel, but Chester.
After shooting the shit with the cowboys near the door, Chester made his way over, smacked a meaty hand on the bar, and greeted him with a “Hi, how are ya?”
“Good,” Mack replied. “What can I get you?”
“It pains me that you have to ask,” Chester said, shooting a toothy grin.
Mack poured the man his favored gut-rot whiskey, passed the glass down to him.
The door opened again, muscles tensed then relaxed—not entirely, though—when Travis Walker appeared.
“Mack,” the big cowboy greeted with a nod, removing his black Stetson and hanging it on one of the hooks near the door.
“Travis,” Mack returned.
They stared at one another for a moment, and Mack knew Travis wasn’t there to shoot the shit or to get drunk. He had an ulterior motive, and Mack got the feeling it had to do with the gossip making its way down the line.
Great.
“I’ll take a beer. Bottle.”
“Sure thing,” Mack said quickly.
“My brothers’ll be here shortly,” Travis said. “Put theirs on my tab.”
Fucking lovely. Just what Mack didn’t need when Daniel arrived, a nosy Walker clan to overhear a conversation Mack wasn’t looking forward to.
After handing Travis a beer, Mack went to the back to grab more to fill the refrigerator. When he returned, he came up short, crate in hand.
Every single one of Travis’s brothers were sitting or standing at the bar, all seven of them taking up as much real estate as they could. They’d even managed to convince Chester to take a seat elsewhere, which was saying something considering Chester’s ass had worked grooves on that stool over the years.
Hoping no one saw his near fumble, Mack carried the crate to the counter, went to work. He was kneeling behind the bar when he heard the door open, briefly wondered if Curtis was going to show, the cherry on top of the Walker sundae.
He took his time, listening for any sound to clue him in to who had arrived.
Good news, it wasn’t Curtis.
Bad news, it was Daniel.
“Where’s my father?” Daniel demanded, as though the customers were Mack’s personal secretaries.
No one responded, thank God.
Standing to his full height, Mack scanned all the faces until he located his son. He forced a smile, but to maintain it, he had to avoid looking at the two men he’d brought with him.
“Father,” Daniel greeted formally. “I’d like you to meet Chris Powell. He’s the friend I was telling you about. Chris, this is my father, Michael Schwartz.”
Mack kept his hands busy so he didn’t have to shake the palm dangling with the request.
Chris reluctantly pulled his hand back, clearly shaken that he’d been left hanging. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Schwartz. May I call you Michael?”
