by L. E. Rico
“You seem to be in quite the rush to get me out of here, Hennessy,” he says once he’s swallowed the vodka. He catches my sister’s eye and holds up the empty shot glass. She nods. “Maybe I should just hang around a little longer—get to know the good folks of Mayhem, Minnesota.”
I shake my head violently.
“Nope. Not necessary. Trust me, the good folks of Mayhem have no interest in getting to know you.”
“Is that so?”
“Please, Bryan. You wouldn’t make it here a week. Look at you,” I say, gesturing to his loafers and trench coat. “You’re dressed for a foggy day in London, not a sub-zero night on the Iron Range. We’ll likely see another two feet of snow before the end of the week, and your little Rent-a-Rolls—or whatever the hell that is you’re driving—won’t even make it out of the parking lot.”
Bryan Truitt’s smile is way too confident. And I realize, too late, what I’ve done. I’ve proffered a challenge.
Chapter Twelve
Bryan
Truittism No. 6: If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
And THEN beat ’em.
I see it in her eyes the second she realizes.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly…
“Hennessy,” I ask slowly, “would you care to make a little wager?”
“I don’t bet,” she informs me flatly.
I smack the tabletop a little too hard. I shouldn’t have knocked back that shot so fast on an empty stomach.
“Oh-ho! So maybe you’re not so convinced I wouldn’t make it here. I think you’re just trying to get me out of your very long, very lovely hair, Hennessy O’Halloran.”
What? Where did that come from? Note to self: do not compliment the enemy’s hair. I mean, that’s what she is, right? The enemy? She’s standing between me and what I want…so, I guess she is.
She confirms her enemy status with a derisive snort.
“Please, don’t flatter yourself, Bryan. Or me, for that matter. You and I both know what a disaster you’d be here. There’s a reason you don’t set foot in any of these Midwest towns that you destroy. You’re much too…” She pauses to consider the word she’s looking for. “Delicate.”
I don’t like that word at all. Enemy. Yes, she’s definitely the enemy.
I think.
“Again, Hennessy, I invite you to make a wager on that with me.” I repeat my offer, more serious this time.
She shrugs. “What did you have in mind, Bryan?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about…if I stay in Mayhem for the next week, you’ll sell me the pub.”
She scoffs at this.
“Please. You’re dreaming.”
“Okay,” I begin thoughtfully. “How about this, then—I’ll stay here in Mayhem either until you raise the money to buy out the loan…or until the day before the loan comes due.”
She leans across the table, intrigued.
“Okay, so what are the stakes if you make it…or don’t?”
“If you don’t raise the money by the day before it’s due, you sell to me.”
“But what the hell do you get out of that? You can wait and buy it if it goes to foreclosure, probably for less.”
“Oh, definitely for less,” I agree. “But part of the deal is that you can’t sell to anyone but me. And you sell it to me for market value.”
“Wait, what happened to twenty-five percent above market?” she asks, blonde brows drawing in over her blue eyes.
“Oh, that deal is still available—if you sell to me right now. But if I have to wait more than five weeks here in the Arctic Circle, then I get it at market value—which is still very fair to you, I might add. And I’m spared the expense of the fees and commissions that come out of my end if I have to get it in foreclosure, so it’s fair to me, too.”
She seems to consider this.
“Okay…so you’re getting the property at a lower price if you make it the entire time. What if you don’t? What if you pack it up and run home to the palm trees and sandy beaches after a few days? What do I get out of the wager in that case?”
I don’t know where the words come from. If I’d taken enough time to even breathe, I’m sure my filter would have caught them before they left my mouth. But I don’t pause. I just speak. And it’s a shock to both of us.
“Then I’ll pay off the loan and deed it back to you for nothing.”
It’s really something to behold. Hennessy O’Halloran’s jaw literally drops at the same moment her brows arch high in surprise. She blinks rapidly and tilts her head a little closer to me as if she thinks she’s misheard. She’s so close that I can smell her flowery shampoo, and that’s not helping me at this moment.
“Are you…are you saying you’ll pay off the hundred-thousand…and then turn around and deed the property back to me? For free?”
“You’ve got it.”
Funny, the more I say it, the easier it gets. Suddenly, the only thing I want to do is take away the worry lines that perpetually crease her beautiful face. At this moment, though, she’s not worried so much as incredulous.
“T–that’s absolutely insane! Who does that? What kind of a businessman are you?” she demands, her voice ratcheting up to a squeak of disbelief.
I shrug.
“It’s only insane if I doubted, for even a second, that I won’t make it to the bitter end,” I explain calmly. “You see, for me, it’s a done deal. I’ve already won this bet as far as I’m concerned, so it’s a good risk for me.”
She bristles at my confidence, and I see her start to warm up to the idea of kicking my ass.
“And what if I do raise the money and pay it off. What then?”
I hold up my palms, just as Walker drops the second shot in front of me.
“No harm, no foul,” I say when she’s left us alone again. “I get to go home, you get to live happily ever after. No one owes anyone anything.”
“I still don’t understand—”
I cut her off before I have to go through the whole thing again…and before I have a chance to change my own mind.
“Hennessy, I want this property. It’s that simple. That being said, I honestly liked your father—what little dealings we had. He was a good guy, an honest guy, and I’m not going to take anything away from his family if I don’t have to. I’d rather be a sport and pay you a fair price for it, the way I was going to do with him.”
“Okay,” she says reluctantly, at last.
For a second I think I’ve misheard her.
“Did you say okay?”
She nods.
“I did. Now, do we write up a contract or something?”
“Well, you’re the attorney, so I guess we can if you like.” I rummage around in my briefcase for a legal pad and pen. We spend fifteen minutes hammering out the details. She signs. I sign. The scary sister witnesses.
“I think this calls for a toast, don’t you?” I ask when we’re finished, and I raise my shot glass. She picks up her cocktail.
“To Mayhem,” I say. “And to our partnership.”
“I’ll toast to Mayhem, but there is no partnership, Bryan. Just a bet. That’s all. We’re not friends. We’re not colleagues.”
I shrug. “Have it your way.”
We clink. We drink.
“Oh, and Bryan?”
“Yes, Hennessy?”
“I think maybe you’d better start preparing your ego for the shock of losing. Because this is one time you are not going to get what you want.”
“We’ll see about that.” I chuckle and for a split second wonder what it is, exactly, that I do want.
…
I’m grinning like a fool as I walk out of the pub and around the corner to where I’ve parked the Lexus. In a matter of seconds, I’m looking more like a fool than grinning like one, when I pivot a little too quickly and fly ass-over-teakettle onto the pavement.
“Owww!” I howl, feeling the sting of rock salt on my palms. Maybe I should’ve skipped the third shot. Especially sin
ce I haven’t had anything to eat in a while.
I do a quick inventory, and all bones seem to be intact. And, since none of the good Samaritans of Mayhem have rushed over to help me, it’s safe to say my fall from grace has gone unnoticed.
I scramble up onto my feet very carefully and am about to head back to the Inn when I see it. The sign is huge, with three-foot-high letters and a giant hockey stick outlined in chaser lights. Very gingerly this time, I turn around and cross Main Street, careful to avoid the icy lakes that they call potholes around here.
Campbell’s Outdoor is the closest thing to a big box store that the town of Mayhem can boast. When I walk in, a big fat gray-and-white striped cat greets me. In a sparkly pink sweater. She brushes along my feet, swishing her tail and looking up at me with a coy meow.
“What’s your name?” I murmur, reaching down to pet the top of her head.
“That’s Katty Perry,” comes a voice from behind me. I turn to see a girl, no older than seventeen or eighteen. She’s wearing tight jeans and a hot-pink hoodie, her blonde hair in a messy knot atop her head. She looks strangely familiar.
“Are you…are you related to Hennessy?”
She gives me a frosted-pink–lipped smile. “Yup. I’m her sister.”
“Let me guess… You’re Margarita. Or, maybe Kettle One? Finlandia?”
She snorts and rolls her big blue eyes. “Right? Please, I’m lucky Pops didn’t name me Guinness or Michelob! Nah, I’m Bailey.”
I slap my forehead, realizing that I already know this.
“Right, of course you are.” I grin, shaking my head.
She shrugs and cracks the wad of gum she’s chewing.
“You must be that guy. The L.A. guy.”
“That’d be me.”
“So, do you know Brad Pitt? Or Ryan Reynolds? How about Adam Levine? You know, from The Voice and Maroon 5?”
I start to say no, but she doesn’t give me a chance to do much more than shake my head.
“Oh! And that Dave Navarro guy from Ink Master! He’s hot…if you’re into tats and the whole satanic thing. Do you think the Taylor Swift/Katy Perry feud is really over? Oh, hey, and Ryan Gosling…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I laugh, holding my palms up in surrender. “No, I don’t know any celebrities…not personally, anyway. Though, I once bought a building from Tom Hanks’s brother-in-law,” I offer.
“Huh,” is all she can muster, unenthusiastically, reassessing me with less interest this time. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, according to your sister, I should pick up a few weather-appropriate accessories while I’m in town.”
“Dude, is that the warmest thing you brought?” she asks, wrinkling her nose at my trench coat.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have much need for a parka in California, you know?”
“Fine.” She sighs as if I’ve just disrupted all her plans for the day. I can’t help but notice that I’m the only customer in the store at the moment. “What are you, like a large/tall?” she asks over her shoulder as I follow her to a few circular racks of coats.
“Just about.”
She walks around the hanging selections, occasionally looking up at me and then down again. She moves the hangers back and forth, shakes her head a few times, blowing a big pink bubble here and there. It takes about four minutes for her to finally pull an item off the rack.
“Here,” she says, holding out the navy blue parka for me.
I’m about to complain that it’s too heavy, but her face reminds me that I don’t want to get involved in another O’Halloran debate. When I slip on the coat, I’m shocked by how well it fits. When I look in the mirror, I’m shocked by how good it looks. It’s just long enough to cover my thighs, and it has a big hood that should protect my head nicely.
“Damn,” I mutter appreciatively, “you’re good.”
“Yuh-huh. Okay, so what’s your shoe size?”
“Ten-and-a-half.”
“’Kay. You sit over there on that bench, and I’ll get you some boots,” she says with a gesture to the other side of the store. I’m about to suggest that I browse the selection first, but her coat pick was so good that I decide to trust her on this decision as well. And I’m right. When Bailey O’Halloran returns, she’s got two big boxes in her lean arms.
“So, these don’t come in, like, half sizes. Try the ten and the eleven, and see what fits better…and here,” she says as she tosses me a pair of thick wool socks. “You’ll want to see how they fit when you’re wearing winter socks.”
I pull the impressive footwear out of the box. The boots are big, with a rubber bottom and leather upper. They have a warm, felted liner inside, and when I put them on, my feet practically sigh in relief. I don’t need to try the elevens; the tens are a perfect fit.
“Sold! Let me pay for these…”
“Nuh-uh, we’re not done yet,” she informs me.
I put the box under one arm and the parka over the other as I follow her from shelf to shelf. She picks gloves, a scarf, and a hat, as well as a half-dozen pairs of the socks. When she’s got all the accessories out of the way, she takes another appraising look at me.
“You got anything more casual than that suit?”
“Why? Don’t they wear suits in Minnesota?”
“Sure. But not the ones who are trying to pick up my sister. She’s around suits all day. She doesn’t know it, but she’s looking for a casual guy. Casual guys need casual clothes.”
I’m sure my mouth must be hanging open.
“I-I’m sorry, but what makes you think I’m interested in your sister?”
Another roll of the china-blue eyes.
“Dude. Please. Hennessy knows the law, Jameson knows nursing, and Walker knows bartending. My superhero power? Men. I can read your thoughts, interpret your body language, and translate ‘Guy Speak’ to real-life English.”
“Ha!” I snort louder than I intended, and from the way her eyes narrow and her lips purse, I’ve offended yet another O’Halloran sister.
“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound skeptical…”
“The last one left you because you were married to the job and didn’t want to marry her, right? And then it was a series of irrelevant hotties who blurred together, each one just like the last. And now, here you are, out of the city where everything is fabricated—an optical illusion, if you will—and for the first time in a long time, maybe forever, you see something real. Someone real.”
Oh. My. God.
This kid—because that’s what she looks like in the hoodie, popping the gum—has better insight into my psyche than my three-hundred-dollar-an-hour psychiatrist on Rodeo Drive.
“I…uh…”
“Don’t worry.” She shrugs with a bright smile. “Your secret’s safe with me. But trust me on this, you need some jeans. And button-down shirts. Maybe a little plaid so you look more Minnesota Rugged and less L.A. Pretty Boy.”
Before I can object to that characterization, she’s hauling jeans off shelves and lining up an array of plaid flannel shirts. I don’t bother trying anything on, for fear she’ll follow me into the fitting room and analyze my choice of boxer briefs.
“Okay, now you’re good to go.” She smiles brightly as we head to the counter where the cash register sits. In an instant, she’s scanning and pushing the items back at me. “You’ll want to wear this stuff out. You can put your old shoes in the boot box, and I’ll bag them up for you. The total’s five-hundred twenty-two dollars and eighty-eight cents,” she informs me casually.
“What! Are you kidding me? For flannel and denim?” I gape—credit card paused in midair between the two of us.
The blonde plucks it from my hand. “Dude, this stuff is good, but it’s spendy, you know? Believe me, you won’t be sorry you made this purchase. Fitting room’s back there,” she says with a nod of her pretty chin.
“Are you trying to stick it to me because I want to buy the pub?” I ask suspiciously.
“Oh, puh-leeze,” she groans with an exaggerated eye-roll. “If I wanted to get back at you, I’d have sent you out of here wearing a camo jumpsuit with duck boots and a beanie,” she informs me with a self-assured snicker. “No, actually, Janet Lahti told me not to worry about the pub—that the fruits of the forest told her it’s going to work out great and lead to a new career path for me.”
I’m not sure which part of that sentence I should pick apart first, so I start in the middle.
“I’m sorry—fruits of the forest?”
“It’s a pie.”
“Okay…and Janet Larti?”
“Lahti. She owns the Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop down the street. She can see things, you know. Like a psychic.”
“Uh-huh,” is the only response I can come up with after this stunningly bizarre exchange.
“Dude, it’s the pie. She bakes the pie, and it tells her things. People come from all over. And she’s never wrong. Not once.”
“I…uh…I’ll have to remember that,” I mutter, grabbing my new clothing and beating a path to the changing room before she can tell me about the little leprechauns who live in the attic.
Chapter Thirteen
Hennessy
“This is just…insane,” Jameson says, putting her fingers to her temples as if she’s suddenly got a migraine. “How could you have made a bet with that man?”
The four of us agreeing on anything is an extremely rare occurrence, and that’s what I’m worried about as we sit around a table in the pub after hours. I’ve explained the situation to my sisters, and now I’m fielding their questions and concerns. Lots and lots of concerns. I still don’t know what the hell I was thinking when I agreed to this bizarre arrangement, but I’m not about to tell them that. So, I maintain my facade of perfect calm and confidence.
“James, what have we got to lose? We raise the cash—we win. Bryan Truitt goes home before the end of the five weeks—we win. We decide to sell it to him, we get it for twenty-percent above market—we win. Even if we don’t raise it, we sell it with no loss. Another win.”
But my oldest sister is not convinced by my win-win-win scenario.
“But why would he offer to buy it and…and deed it back to us if he loses the bet? That’s a hundred-thousand dollars! Who does that? Who gives away that kind of money to someone he’s just met? I mean, why? What’s in it for him?” she demands.