Knox reaches into the bowl again. "Third prize," he says. "A weekend getaway package." He squints at the ticket. "Number 0-4-7-7-2."
I look down at the crumpled strip in my hand.
0-4-7-7-2.
"Oh my God," I say.
"THAT'S HER!" Luna screams, grabbing my arm and shaking it so hard my elbow cracks. "THAT'S BETH, THAT'S HER TICKET!"
The crowd around us erupts. Maren is jumping up and down. Somewhere behind me I hear Harper's unmistakable whoop.I'm laughing and holding the ticket up and Luna is pushing me toward the stage like I've just been called to accept an Oscar.
Knox holds the prize envelope out to me, but when I reach for it, he doesn't immediately let go. Instead, his long fingers slide deliberately over mine, his thumb dragging a slow, heated path across my knuckles.
"Congratulations," he murmurs, his voice dropping a full octave beneath the noise of the crowd.
"Happy for me?" I ask. My breath hitches, a sudden, heavy spike of heat pooling low in my stomach at the unexpected, skin-on-skin friction.
"Elated," he says, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
I'm so thoroughly distracted by the lingering heat on my hand that, as I turn to step off the little wooden platform, I nearly walk directly into a solid chest.
"Sorry," I say, steadying myself.
The man I've almost body-checked takes a smooth half-step back. A beta. Maybe mid-fifties, silver-templed, wearing a navy blazer. Nice watch.
"No harm done," he says. "Looks like it's your lucky night."
"Totally!" I wave the envelope. "I never win anything."
"Want to be a double winner?" he asks, handing me an envelope with a golden stamp.
17
Beth
"Two shots of whatever whiskey you have, please."
I don't usually drink whiskey. I'm more of a vodka cranberry girl. But the folded, opened letter in my back pocket has apparently turned me into the kind of person who slides onto a barstool and orders hard liquor neat.
Arthur pours it without question, which I appreciate more than he knows.
I take a second sip and let it burn a slow trail down to my stomach while my brain cycles through the same loop it's been running for the last twenty minutes.
Whowasthat guy? I've never seen him before in my life. I scan the venue but he's just not here. Did he leave? Did he show up specifically to hand me an envelope? If so, how did he know I'd be here?
"Hey." Arthur's voice cuts through the spiral, warm and bright. He leans both forearms on the bar and grins at me. "You look like you're solving a murder over here. Everything good?"
I blink. Rearrange my face into something that hopefully reads asfestiverather thanexistentially rattled.
"Just taking a breather," I say, lifting the whiskey. "You've been pouring drinks for four hours straight. Shouldn't I be askingyouthat?"
"Are you kidding? This is my dream job. Captive audience, unlimited access to ice, beautiful people ordering shots at my bar." He winks. "Night of my life."
"Your bar," I repeat.
He taps the polished counter, looking thoughtfully around his domain. "I built the facade. I strung the lights. Under the laws of VFW salvage rights, that makes it my kingdom for the night."
I chortle, tracing my finger over the edge. He isn't wrong, though. He somehow managed to take cheap sheets of plywood, and attach them in sleek, vertical slats to completely hide the sticky, faux-brick front of the original bar. Backlit by the warm amber fairy lights he zip-tied underneath the lip, it genuinely looks nice.
