Jordan reached over and squeezed her wrist, which brought her a new breath. She smiled, patting his hand and sipping her tea again without another word said.
“I’m sorry you have to work with her,” Noah offered, sipping on his own glass of whiskey on the rocks. “I wouldn’t be able to do it, work so closely with a Scooter. I get amped up enough when Patrick walks through the warehouse. I can’t even imagine if I had to train Malcolm or something.”
Malcolm was Mallory’s younger brother, and a giant pain in our entire family’s ass. Whereas most of the Scooter family held it together around us, playing nice and pretending like we all still got along after the death of my grandpa and Robert J. Scooter, Malcolm thrived in the drama. He loved to push our buttons — especially Noah’s.
He was one stupid remark away from having his nose broken, if he didn’t watch it.
“I agree,” Mom said, her face souring. My mother didn’t speak ill on anyone, but with the Scooters, even she had a grudge. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be upset if both you and your little brother got out of that distillery altogether.”
“We can’t do that, Mom,” Noah said gently, reaching over to squeeze her wrist. “Dad helped build that distillery, that brand… hell, this entire town. We’re honoring him by keeping the Becker name alive in this company’s history.”
“I know,” she said, brows folding together as sadness creeped in. “I know. And I know he’s looking down on every single one of you, and he’s so proud.” She patted Noah’s hand where it held her. “I just worry, is all.”
“That’s your job as our mother,” Noah said.
“And we make it an easy job to do,” Jordan added.
We all chuckled at that.
“Thanks, guys. But no need to worry. I’ve got it under control.” I said the words as if I, too, was bothered by the fact that I had to be around Mallory Scooter. I’d avoided her my entire life, knowing I couldn’t get caught up in a girl who was so off-limits it wasn’t even comical to consider a world where I could try my luck with her. I still lived in that world, and I knew there was still no way in hell I’d ever have a chance… but being forced to spend time with her, to get to know more about the girl who’d always been a mystery to me?
It wasn’t the worst thing I could think of.
It would, however, have been easier if she was as rude all the time as she was when she first walked into my office that Monday. Part of me wished we could live there — in the place where I annoyed her and she infuriated me. Because when she asked about my books, about my family, about me… I liked it.
And I wanted to know about her, too.
“Well,” Mom said, smoothing her hands over the napkin in her lap before she placed it on the table and stood. “I think it’s about time for a dance.”
Noah and Jordan smiled as I stood, rounding the table and offering my hand to Mom. “I think you’re right, Momma. May I have the honor?”
She placed her hand in mine with a warm smile, and Noah crossed the living room to the old record player Dad had bought before we were even born. There was a moment of fuzz and static, and then the first notes of Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” sparked to life, and Mom released a breath, closing her eyes a moment before we both began to dance.
I wasn’t even a thought in the universe on the night my mom danced with my dad to this song, her in her long, cream wedding dress and dad in his blue jeans and white button-up shirt. But, I’d seen the video, the photographs, and I knew that the smile my mom wore each time one of my brothers or I danced with her was the same one she wore that night.
She and Dad used to dance every night in our kitchen while she cooked, or in the living room after dinner. It wasn’t always to this song, though it was a favorite. After Dad passed, my brothers and I decided to keep the tradition alive.
Not just for her, but for us, too.
In the months that first followed Dad’s death, our entire family fell apart. Mom had taken to drinking herself numb, my older brothers were fighting over who was the new man of the house, and Mikey and I were retreating into the things that brought us most comfort — me into books, him into music. It was the first and only time I’d ever seen our family machine break down.
The night I asked Mom to dance after dinner was the first night we started to come back together.
It’d been nine years since my father’s death, nearly a decade without him being here with us, and yet I still felt his presence as if he’d never left at all when we were all inside that house.
That’s the thing about losing a loved one. In one way or another, they stay with us forever. They’re never truly lost, never truly gone — as long as we choose to keep them alive in our hearts.
Still, the mystery of his death was one that haunted every member of my family. Almost a decade had passed, and we still didn’t have answers for the flurry of questions we asked ourselves every night.
Part of me hoped we would find those answers one day.
The bigger part of me knew we never would.
So, I shut those thoughts out, focusing instead on the music filling our home as I spun Mom out before dropping her down in a dramatic dip. And in the back of my mind, I wondered what it would be like to dance with my own wife to a song that we’d call our own, one we’d lean on in the good times and the bad as we went through life together.
Then, for some odd reason, I wondered if Mallory Scooter liked to dance.
The thought was gone with the next spin.
Mallory
Mine.
All my life, I’d wanted to look at something — anything — and feel that one, possessive, all-empowering word ringing true to my bones.
When I was younger, I’d wanted a dog — and we’d gotten one. But it wasn’t mine, it was ours — my brother’s, my dad’s, my mom’s. I’d had a room to myself growing up, but it had been decorated carefully by my mother, without a single representation of who I was. When I got my car, it was the one my father had driven for five years and then handed down to me. Even when I was at college, I shared an apartment with three girls I didn’t know, and the space never felt like mine.
Now, standing in the middle of the gutted retail space that I would transform into an art studio, I looked around and tried to feel it.
Mine.
This place is mine.
I should have felt it, because for all intents and purposes, it was mine — along with the small studio apartment above it. It was free for me to do what I wanted with it, to bring my dream of owning my own studio to life.
I could look around and picture it all.
I saw the windows, floor to ceiling, letting in natural light and giving passerby’s a view of the art being made inside. I saw the back room that I’d convert into a dark room, where photographs would slowly materialize. I saw the stage for live models, the easels surrounding it, imagined artists of all ages gazing up at their subject before dipping their paint brush to begin. I saw craft classes for children, saw date night painting projects for couples, saw wine night sketch classes for girls’ outings. I envisioned students taking classes with me for years, honing their craft, becoming stronger and more creative as the years passed.
The options for what would happen inside that empty room were endless.
And still, it didn’t feel like mine.
Because it came at a price.
It was my father’s name on the check that secured that piece of real estate for me. It was because of him that I had a place to live on my own, and a business to bring to life.
And in order to keep it, I had to play by his rules.
Every time the thought assaulted me, my fists would clench, my nose would flare, and I’d close my eyes and try to find a breath that didn’t burn on the way down. There was nothing I could imagine being worse than being in debt to my father, than being under his thumb again like I had been before I turned eighteen.
And yet, here I was.
I was still looking around, tryin
g to find a sense of ownership when my best friend plowed through the front door with a bottle of champagne in his hand.
“I brought the bubbly!” Chris exclaimed, floating into the vacant shop with the same grace that he made an entrance everywhere he went. He was dressed impeccably in his beige cable knit sweater, accented by a thick, plaid scarf that hugged his neck and the tweed jacket shielding him from the Tennessee winter wind outside. I’d never seen my best friend in jeans, not in all the years I’d known him, so it was no surprise that he was in navy dress pants and brown leather ankle boots. His blonde hair was parted to the left, styled neatly, and his face clean shaven — which accented what I referred to as his Superman Jaw. His chocolate eyes were warm and inviting as always, accented by the flurry of freckles that dotted the apples of his cheeks.
I lifted one eyebrow at the bottle in his hands. “I’m sure you brought that bottle to celebrate the shop, and not at all because it’s Saturday and you love brunch more than the cast of Friends loves coffee.”
“Think of it as two birds, one bottle,” he said with a mischievous smile. “Now, we just need two champagne flutes and a—”
Chris stopped mid-stride on his way over to where I stood in the middle of the room, his eyes dropping to the mound of matted fur in my arms.
“Mallory… what in the ever living hell is that?”
I glanced down at the subject of his disdain with a smile, running a hand over the little fur ball until I found an ear. I scratched behind it, and a soft purr rumbled against my chest.
“This is Dalí,” I explained, and as if he already knew his new name, he peered up at me with green, glowing eyes that then turned to Chris.
“What the fuck is a Dalí?”
I rolled my eyes. “He’s a cat, silly. Here,” I said, holding Dalí out toward him. “You can hold him. He’s really docile.”
“Why do you have a cat?” he asked, leaning away with one brow climbing higher and higher on his forehead as he assessed the creature in my hands. “And how do you have a cat?”
“He was a stray. He wandered up when I was moving my stuff upstairs last night. I gave him some food, a place to sleep that wasn’t freezing… isn’t he cute? He reminds me of Salvador Dalí with his little mustache,” I said, running my fingertips over the fur around the cat’s mouth. “I thought he could be a sort of Shop Cat.”
Chris blinked. “Only you, Mallory. Only you.”
He rounded to stand on the other side of me, still watching Dalí like he was a dragon and not an adorable, fluffy, calico cat.
“Anyway,” he said, unwrapping his scarf and letting it hang over his shoulders. “Can you put Mr. Dalí down and go grab us some glasses? We have celebrating to do!”
I sighed. “I can, though I’m not sure I’m much in the mood to celebrate.”
“How could you not be? You have an art studio, Mallory. This has been your dream since you were in high school.”
“But it’s not mine,” I reminded him, placing Dalí on the floor. I gave him one last pet before he sauntered off, finding a spot by the window where he could soak up the sunshine streaming in. “It’s my father’s.”
Chris waved me off. “Logistics. His name was on the check, but it’ll be your name on the door. And besides, you only had to sell him five years of your soul in exchange for something that you can build and enjoy for a lifetime.” He pointed the bottle at me. “I’d say that’s a deal worth making. Now, glasses. Stat.” He started peeling back the gold paper around the cork. “Mama needs some champs.”
I chuckled, jogging up the stairs that led to my small studio apartment above the shop. It was almost as vacant as the shop below, aside from my art from over the years that laid against the walls, waiting to be hung, the new bed I’d splurged on, and a random pile of shit I’d picked up from the local thrift shop. Mom had offered to take me shopping for furniture and essentials, but I’d declined.
I was already in enough debt to them as it was.
Because I knew my best friend was coming over, I’d been sure to make two champagne glasses first on my list at the thrift store. I plucked them free from one of the boxes, unwrapping the brown paper around them and rinsing them off in the sink. I glanced around at the assortment of boxes waiting for me to unpack them before my eyes landed on the one and only book in the entire place.
I paused, smiling as I thought of the boy who’d given it to me. I’d only read thirty pages so far, but already, I could tell there was more to Logan Becker than I ever imagined before.
You could tell a lot about a person by reading their favorite book.
I made a mental note to pick it back up before bed tonight, so I’d have something to talk to my new, grumpy boss about on Monday. Then, I made my way back downstairs.
“Two champagne flutes, as requested,” I announced, setting them on the folding table left behind by the previous owner. It was the only piece of furniture in the shop, save for the metal folding chair beside it.
Chris popped the bottle of champagne open, both of us smiling at the familiar sound. He poured me a glass first, and then one for him before setting the bottle down and holding his glass in the air.
“To my amazing, hard-working, talented-as-fuck best friend and her dream becoming a reality,” he said. “May this studio be everything you’ve ever wanted and more.”
I touched my chest. “You’re so sweet. But no, you can’t host a grand opening.”
He was just about to take a sip, but he paused, poking his bottom lip out. “Oh, come on. Please? You have to get the word out somehow. Just let me throw one, eensie-weensie grand-opening party with some glitter and booze and then I swear, I’ll never ask to host an event again. I’ll let you make the studio as boring and emo as you want.”
I chuckled, rolling my eyes before I clinked my glass to his. “Fine. But no glitter, and no techno music.”
“Your loss,” he said on a shrug, taking his first sip before he did a little twirl, taking in the studio in all its naked glory. “So, work at the distillery five days a week, and you get to run this bad boy on the evenings and weekends. That was the deal you made with good ol’ Patrick Scooter, am I right?”
“Yep,” the word rolled over my lips with a pop. “Which basically means I’ll be doing what I loathe more than anything for seventy percent of my life, and what I love for the other thirty.”
“Life is about balance,” Chris offered with a teasing grin. He leaned a hip against the folding table, watching me over the rim of his glass before he took another sip. “How was your first week at the glorious Scooter Whiskey distillery?”
“Annoying. I have a stupid uniform, and had a two-day orientation that I’ll never for the life of me understand why I didn’t get to skip, considering who I am.” I sighed. “Oh, and, you’ll never guess who’s training me.”
“Logan Becker.”
I opened my mouth to tell him who, only to pop it closed again. “How could you possibly know that?”
Chris cocked a brow. “It’s Stratford, honey. Not like this town doesn’t know everything about everyone. Logan has been the Lead Tour Guide for two years now. Of course, he’s training you.”
“Huh,” I mused. “Well, then you can also imagine how awkward it is.”
“Oh, you mean because your families used to be best buds back in the day and now loathe each other?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“Impossible not to be,” he said with a wink. “But honestly, it can’t be that bad. You are both far removed from your parents’ drama, aren’t you? Logan Becker always struck me as the most level-headed of those brothers. He was always the one trying to stop them from fighting.”
“But he never backed down from one, either.”
“Touché.” Chris took a drink of champagne. “Was he an asshole to you?”
I thought that question over, battling with whether the answer was yes or no. He was a bit rude, especially when he asked me why I was even there at all. Then again, with th
e way I dressed that first day and the prissy better than everyone attitude I walked in with, I couldn’t blame him.
“No?” I finally said, taking my own sip. “I mean, I can tell he doesn’t want me there — but I think it’s just because of who I am, and the fact that my uncle is retiring soon, and he’s had his eye on that job for years.”
“You think they’ll make you manager over him?” Chris shook his head. “That doesn’t seem right. You’re just starting.”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Dad never said anything about that in his deal, but…”
We both fell silent, because I didn’t need to say it out loud for Chris to know that my father wasn’t known for playing clean or fair. He knew what he wanted, and he stopped at nothing to get it.
If me being manager was in his plan, it didn’t matter if I knew about it or not — it would happen.
“Logan Becker,” Chris mused. “God, I had the biggest crush on him in high school. He was always so broody, in like… a nerdy kind of way. You know? Like, he was always reading in a corner, being mysterious and shit.” He sighed. “There’s just something about a boy with a book in his hands.”
I chuckled.
“What?” Chris said, crossing his arms, the top hand still dangling his champagne flute like a charm bracelet. “Like you don’t recognize how down-home hot that boy is.”
I shrugged, pushing off from where I was leaning against the table next to him to pace. “He’s not hard to look at.”
“Bullshit.”
“Fine,” I huffed. “Yes, he’s hot. But, he’s Logan Becker. That boy has had more girls in his bed than I’ve had pairs of Chucks — and that’s saying something. It’s not like he’s anywhere near my type, or that I’m anywhere near his. We were in the same grade and never said more than two words to each other.”
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