Page 102 of Pin My Alpha
My name is on the label.
Under it: BYRNE’S & THOMPSON. PARTNERSHIP AGREEMENT.
I just stare at it. The words don’t connect.
“Byrne’s and Thompson.?” I ask, my voice thin.
“Yeah.”
“What is this?”
“It means the legal-clinic lawyer Rhys found us drafted a new structure this morning.” He scrapes a hand over his jaw, a nervous gesture I’ve seen a hundred times. “It means the business is becoming an LLC. With two managing partners.”
My stomach feels like it’s full of ice. I don’t touch the folder. I can smell the anxiety coming off him now, a sharp edge to his scent that cuts right through me.
“Open it,” he says.
My fingers are shaking. The first page is a wall of legal text. Sections are highlighted in yellow. Ownership percentages. Profit distribution. My brain snags on one number and just stops cold.
Fifty percent.
I look up so fast my neck cracks. “Declan.”
“I know what it says.”
“No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t hand someone half your life’s work because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not,” he says, his voice gone rough. “And yeah, I feel guilty. I feel sick about what I said to you. I used the one thing you’re most afraid of to try and make you stay. I know that.” He doesn’t look away. “But this isn’t about that. I should have done this the day you walked in with that binder. You saw what this place could be. You didn’t just save the bar for me, Shay. You saved it with me.”
My name, right there, next to his. Not an employee. A partner. The word blurs behind a sting of tears.
“You’re offering me half your bar,” I whisper.
“I’m offering you half of our bar.”
That’s it. My chest just collapses. “I don’t have the money to buy in,” I say, the practical objection falling out of my mouth automatically. It’s what I do. I bring a spreadsheet to an emotional crisis.
“You don’t need it. Your buy-in is the work you’ve already done. Your strategy, your time. It’s all in there.”
“You can’t just decide I’m worth half a business.”
“I can decide you’re worth more than that.” His eyes are so damn earnest it hurts to look at him. “I don’t want you working for me. I don’t want you living in my apartment. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to earn your place in my life.” His gaze drops to the towel I’m strangling in my fist. “I wantyou there because you choose to be. I want you arguing with me about inventory. I want you changing the playlist when my back is turned. I want you.”
A sob breaks out of me, tangled with a laugh.
Declan’s eyes go glassy. He nods once, like he’s bracing himself.
“I love you,” he says.
The words don’t land. They detonate. They go straight through every wall I’ve ever built and find the kid who watched a dozen different men walk out the door and decided no one would ever get the chance to do that to him again.
Declan’s voice cracks. “I love you. And I want you to be my partner. In everything.”
The last wall crumbles. I don’t think, I just move. I’m up, stumbling over the corner of the table, and I launch myself at him.
He’s halfway out of his chair when I grab his face in my hands and kiss him.
It’s a mess. My mouth is wet from tears, his beard scratches my face, and I’m making a choked, broken sound against his lips. He groans, a rough noise deep in his chest, and his hands find my waist, holding me steady but not pulling me closer. Waiting. He’s always waiting for me to make the choice.
