“I’m not dealing with your bullshit right now.”
“I’m not bullshitting.” I nod at the letter. “Open it.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, grabbing the paper. He scans it, eyes going wide. “Holy shit, Samuel. Just—holy shit.”
“Told you I’m serious.”
“But the cellar. The staff. No one can shut up about how great your little scone and martini breakfast icebreaker thing was. Brother, you were just hitting your stride.”
I flatten my hands on the table to keep them from shaking. I’m scared as fuck, but I’m going in anyway.
After I got off the phone with Emma, I didn’t hesitate. I knew exactly what I had to do.
It means leveling everything I’ve worked for. Everything that’s kept me sane since my retirement. But I will not see Emma lose her shot at happiness on my account.
It hurts like hell, giving it all up. But I’d like to think it’s what Daddy would do.
I’d like to think I’m making him proud.
“I hit my stride because I had Emma working beside me. Now that she’s gone—”
“Wait.” Beau stares at me. “Don’t tell me Emma is resigning, too? I thought you said you wanted her as your replacement!”
I swallow. “She’s gonna try. To quit, I mean. But you can’t let her. Emma, Hank, and I—the three of us shouldn’t be working together. Someone has to go, and of course she was the first to volunteer.”
“Such a Katniss move,” Bel calls.
I pull my brows together. “Who’s Katniss, and why do I have a feeling she has something to do with that sparkly vampire guy?”
“Clearly, you need to brush up on your YA love triangles. Anyway—I could wring all y’alls’ necks right now. I’m not accepting this.” He tosses the letter back at me. It flutters awkwardly through the air, landing somewhere on the floor next to his chair.
“Too bad. I’m not working for Blue Mountain Farm anymore.”
Beau lets out an aggravated sigh. “Why can’t the three of you work together? You’re adults. Y’all just need to swallow your pride and get over your damn selves.”
I dip my head. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do here. But there’s a lot of hurt feelings involved—”
“Have you talked to Hank? Reached out to him?”
My chest tightens. “No.”
“You need to figure that shit out.”
“He’s the one who kissed my girl.”
Beau narrows his eyes at me. “You showed your ass when Emma got here. Now he’s showing his when she leaves. Really, you’re both at fault, and you both have shit to atone for.”
“Maybe,” I sniff. “Maybe not. Either way, I don’t trust myself to talk to him without it ending bloody.”
“What? Who do you think you are, Jax Teller? This isn’t a motorcycle club. This is a family. And I won’t see it come apart on my watch. Make things right with Hank, you hear? I’m telling you as a boss, but first and foremost, I’m telling you as a brother. We’ve all come too far and been through too much shit to give up on each other now. Besides, what do you think is gonna happen after you resign? Will you really never talk to Hank again? Are you going to skip Sunday supper from now until forever so y’all don’t have to see each other? The problem is still gonna be there, Samuel, whether you leave or not. Find Hank and talk to him. Right now. Walk out that door”—he nods in the direction of his foyer—“find your brother, and make this right. Don’t freeze him out until you’ve heard his side of the story.”
By the way my gut seizes, I know that’s exactly what I should do. I should let Hank explain himself. I should at least attempt to make things right. The thought of missing out on a single Sunday supper, much less all of them from now on, makes me short of breath.
But my anger is the only thing keeping me from drowning in my pain. Anger is easy.
Forgiveness is not.
I know it makes me a hypocrite, asking Emma to forgive me for being a bonehead while refusing to forgive Hank for the same sin.
Then again, he was more than a bonehead. He was malicious. He knows my history, which means he definitely knows how painful his betrayal would be.
He knew exactly where to sink his dagger to hurt me most. So yeah. If Hank wants to come to me, I’ll talk. But I won’t be the one extending the olive branch. That’s up to him.
“Let me figure out things with Emma first, okay? Then…yeah, we’ll see what happens with Hank.”
Beau rises with a groan. “Don’t you play that game with me, Samuel Joseph.”
“You know, using my middle name to get me to listen only works when Mama does it.”
“You don’t figure your shit out, I’ll get Mama to kick your ass. How about that?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He points at the door. “Oh, I would. Now get gone so I can put this nugget to bed.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, running a hand over my face. “I really am, for being such a douchebag to Emma in the beginning. I thought you didn’t trust me to handle everything. The food and the wine programs.”
That gives Beau pause. He frowns. “Of course I trusted you. This—right now—it’s the first time I’ve ever questioned that.”
The knife twists.
Aw, fuck.
I don’t know what to do with myself when I get home.
Usually I’d check my email. Fire off some calls about John and Celeste’s big wedding, which is next weekend.
But I’m unemployed now, and not exactly in my right mind, so no point in doing that.
Usually I’d decant a bottle of something good. The cellar really is my happy place. But now wine just reminds me of Emma.
God, if only she were here right now—
We’d be in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the island, glass of Amarone in front of her as she watches me cook at the stove. I’m making comfort food, maybe breakfast for dinner? Eggs Benedict, Southern style, with fried green tomatoes, grit cakes, and Mama’s creamed collards. Homemade hollandaise and a side of crispy sweet potatoes.
The fire’s going, and Emma’s smiling, and everything is warm and cozy as it should be. We’d eat, then we’d fuck. The kind of sex that takes all night and leaves you shaking.
Instead, I’m standing in my dark kitchen alone, starving but feeling too sick to eat. I put my hand on the countertop. The marble is cold to the touch, and I start to shake for a different reason.
I can’t.
I can’t face the fucking enormity of what I’m feeling. The truth is killing me now, and if I don’t stop it, I’m afraid it’s just gonna leave my mangled body for dead.
The gym. Yeah. Maybe that’ll help. Always clears my head, and I need to come up with a plan for how to clean up this mess.
I throw on some shorts. Don’t bother with a shirt. I head downstairs to the basement. The trophy case is usually lit up, but tonight, I’m glad it’s dark down here. I can’t look at that stuff right now.
I blast music while I push my limits on one machine after another. I put on the TV. I even talk to myself in the mirror like a lunatic. But it’s still too quiet. Nothing drowns out the voice in my head telling me I’m being a fuckwad. Not the sweat dripping in my eyes or the pounding of my heart or the acute burn in my muscles.