Page 8 of Final Proposal

She nods as if she understands. “Okay, so your brothers are who we don’t like right now then? Who we’re so pissed at that we’re going to order another round over?”

I nod. “Sounds good to me.”

“How many brothers do you have? What are their names?” she asks. “I mean, it’s hard to stick pins in homemade voodoo dolls if we don’t have specifics.”

She’s made me so comfortable that I almost answer her without hesitation.

But I’m a Sharpe, and I’ve learned over the years that people knowing that I am one isn’t always a positive. Especially with the publicity that’s about to hit my family with the release of the biography. The last thing I need is to give her my brothers’ names so she can put two and two together at some point and cash in with a story about the bereaved brother sulking at a roadside inn.

“There are two of them,” I say with a wave of my hand, neglecting to tell her we’re more than just brothers, but that we’re identical triplets. “Their names are irrelevant. It’s just . . . have you ever realized how other people look at you or perceive you, and it knocks you back some?”

She picks more pretzels out of the germ mix and sets them on the table with the pile of others. “In a way, yes. It’s unnerving. Sometimes it’s sobering. And more often than not, it’s not exactly flattering.”

Especially when it’s your father’s observation.

I clear my throat from the sudden emotion clogging it. “You hit that nail on the head.”

“I’m sorry.”

The purity in her simple response gives me pause. A sincerity I seldom hear these days—especially when coming from an absolute stranger.

The look in her eyes is just as genuine.

And it must be a mixture of the late hour, the third glass of whiskey, and the fucking events of the night, but Jesus . . . I hate the sudden pressure in my chest and need to move about.

I rise abruptly from my stool and Ellery’s eyes widen in surprise at my sudden movement. “What’s wro—”

“Excuse me, everyone,” a woman near the entrance of the bar shouts. The opening is a cased doorway that leads to a foyer. People shuffle but fall silent as they turn to face the woman’s kind smile and guarded eyes.

“Listen up,” our bartender bellows to get the attention of the last remaining patrons too preoccupied to pay attention.

“Hi. My name is Amy. As some of you know,” she says when the room falls silent, “the authorities have just informed us that they’ve closed the road for the night in both directions. For those who didn’t know that yet, oops, sorry to be the bearer of bad news. So yes, that means you’re stuck here for the night if you haven’t already secured a room at one of the other hotels down the way. As for us, we’re also completely booked.” A collective groan rumbles through the room.

“The good news,” Amy continues, “is that you’re welcome to stay and make yourself comfortable in here. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s dry, has comfortable chairs, and the light show outside is spectacular.” She smiles as she motions to the windows. “The other bad news? By state law, we were required to stop serving alcohol about forty minutes ago. So we’re going to have to close down the bar—”

“Seriously?” a man slurs from the far side of the room with numerous empties on the table beside him. The bartender slides a glance over to Amy as if to say, he’ll handle him if need be.

“Seriously,” she repeats with an understanding smile. She holds her finger up. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t sell you a bottle of your favorite poison now . . . or what’s left of a bottle so you can drink at your own leisure throughout the night.” A few whoops sound off across the room. “I thought that might make some of you happy.”

Clapping breaks out in a show of our sad state of desperation, and Amy curtsies.

Ellery leans over, that sunshine scent present again mixed with her shampoo, and murmurs, “I guess it’s time to make a decision, Ford.”

“About?”

“Whiskey or beer?”

Ford

Four Hours Earlier

It’s eaten at me all night.

That’s a lie.

It’s eaten at me ever since I read chapter twenty-two. The one titled Fatherhood. The chapter where my father talked about his three boys. His greatest accomplishments. He detailed his struggles with Callahan and how proud he was of him, and then how Ledger was the epitome of him, clearly born to step into his professional shoes when he chose to vacate them.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs devoted to my brothers and their place in the Sharpe family. The Sharpe universe, really.