Page 8 of Prime Time Romance

She doesn’t usually call this late.

“Hi, sweet pea.” She sounds normal. Soft voice. Tender and even. “So sorry to call so late, but I wanted to let you know that they set a date for the auction.”

My heart double-beats at the word auction.

“I know you said before that you’re not interested in trying again,” her message continues, “but the bank is listing the place at a great price. Everyone would be delighted to see you come home. Now that things are settled with the estate, you should think about it. You have lots of time. The auction isn’t until June twenty-first at seven. At least come up and check it out. You could stay the night, and we could have breakfast at Nana’s in the morning. Call me if you want to talk about it. Okay?”

The voicemail ends with a soft click, but my heart stays lodged up in my throat.

My dad’s old bar is up for sale again. Clearly, the new owners couldn’t make it work any better than I could. I shove my phone deep into my pocket as if the action will also banish all the unwanted thoughts now swimming around in my head. For a brief second, I consider going up there. I haven’t been back to Orillia since we sold the place. That bar has some of my best memories and a whole slew of my worst. But any plans I may have been making in my head stop when the door to the staff room swings open, bringing with it one of the barbacks and a chorus of female voices singing, “Baby, baby, baby, ohhh!”

Shit.

Brynn.

By the time I get back out to the main bar, she’s barreling toward the coat check. I catch up just as she reaches the front door. Little Chuck gives me an approving fist bump as we exit onto the steps. I should probably explain that although I’m taking her home, I’m not actually taking her home. Instead, I watch the spectacle that is Brynn, gripping the railing with both hands, visibly wincing as she slowly makes her way down the steps.

“Why did you buy those shoes if they hurt your feet so much?”

She straightens at the question, as if trying to prove that she’s not in that much pain. “I ordered them online. They were on sale. And I thought they looked cute, and then I was too lazy to take them back, and then my thirty-day return period was up, so I convinced myself that I could make them work.” She stares down at her feet. “But I’m learning that mind over matter can only take you so far.” She glances at the long length of the alley out to the street. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

The way she winces as she shifts her weight says otherwise.

Without thinking, I snake my hand around her waist and scoop her into my arms. She stares up at me with wide eyes, blinking.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“I could not even tell you the last time I’ve been home before midnight,” I explain. “I have my heart set on a solid eight hours of sleep, and at the pace you were walking, we wouldn’t be home until dawn.”

She relaxes a little, letting her cheek press against my shoulder.

“My inner feminist really wants to object to being carried like a paperback heroine right now, but after the day I’ve just had…” Her voice trails off.

“Rough one?”

She looks away, avoiding my eyes. “More like a rough year.”

“Anything I can do?”

She shakes her head. “Not unless you have a magic wand. Or an excellent therapist?”

I laugh. “I could probably use both of those things myself.”

She wraps her arms around my neck as I make my way out of the alley and down the three blocks to Queen Street. Her head bumps against my chest with every step. She doesn’t say anything else until I come to a stop to wait for a traffic light.

“Is this something you do often or am I your first?”

I stare down at her, confused.

“Carrying women home in your arms?” she clarifies.

I hoist her up a little higher, adjusting my grip. “I can say with confidence that this is the first time and most likely the last.”

She tips her head to the side. “So, Josh Bishop is not a romantic?”

“He is not. In fact…”

I set her down on her feet, then promptly take her hands and haul her up and over my shoulder, transforming her from—What did she call it? A paperback heroine?—to a sack of potatoes.