Page 13 of Micah

A pickup rolls into the alley behind the bar.

Patrick—her shithead brother.

My mood sours immediately.

He parks crooked.

Leaves the engine running.

Climbs out empty-handed.

Sloane's still carrying those damn crates. I watch her stop and rub her chest, and I frown.

She has asthma.

Seasonal.

Allergy induced.

And it’s been hot out—really fucking hot.

Heat and humidity are a bad mix for her.

She shouldn’t be exerting herself like that.

And Patrick?

That prick doesn't so much as glance in her direction.

Doesn't offer to take the weight.

Doesn't even hold the fucking door.

Instead, he starts talking before she's even close enough to hear him, pointing toward something inside the building like she's an employee instead of the woman whose name is on every legal document I've managed to dig up.

Piece of shit.

I've spent enough years reading body language to recognize a control freak.

Patrick O'Brien isn't just controlling.

He's a nasty bastard.

He invades her space.

Talks over her.

Answers questions directed at her.

Collects the cash.

Makes decisions.

This asshole acts like he’s the king of a kingdom that isn't even his.

I know because I checked.

And according to every public record I could legally access The Watering Hole belongs to Sloane.