“On the house,” she says. “Because trial shifts require recovery.”
I lift it cautiously. “Am I fired?”
“No,” she says. “But you’re not hired either. And you’re definitely not built for Friday nights.”
“You move at a different pace,” Frankie says, nodding with agreement.
“I move at conversation pace,” I admit.
Gwen nods once. “You’d be fine on a quieter shift, which is not really when I need help. But you could be an emergency call-in on Sunday afternoons?”
We both know that’s generous.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “And I will definitely take you up on it if I get desperate enough.”
“You’re good with kids—you rescued Max without thinking,” Frankie adds.
“That feels like basic human decency,” I reply dryly. “Not a qualification.”
“In this town?” Gwen arches a brow. “Human decency will get you far.”
I swirl the ice in my glass and stare at it for a second.
“My dad used to say if you can’t remember someone’s name by the second visit, you’re not paying attention,” I say lightly. “I think that stuck.”
Frankie’s expression softens. “My parents ran the town’s annual gala ball. Knew everybody’s name.” There’s a pause. “They’re gone now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “Mine, too.”
She gives me a sympathetic look, then looks down at her hands.
Across the room, Remi stands, bouncing Zela gently against her shoulder. Max is mid-argument with Colt about whetherdinosaurs could swim, and he slowly guides him to follow his mother.
Remi catches my eye as she passes the bar.
“Good shift,” she says warmly.
“Night night!” Max calls as Remi shepherds him toward the door.
“Night, Max. Stay off the furniture.”
The door closes behind them, letting in another ribbon of cool air before settling shut. Inside, the noise shifts again to something much more contained. Gwen eyes me while she wipes down the bar one final time.
“So,” she says casually, “what actually brought you here?”
I take a sip of the drink she poured me, my nose screwing up at the bitter taste.
“I wanted to go somewhere people didn’t already know who I was,” I say quietly. “Or worse—who I was expected to be.”
Frankie tilts her head slightly. “That’s very specific.”
“Corporate family business.” I shrug. “Lots of suits and expectations. Anda lotof my stepfamily.”
“And you thought,” Gwen says mildly, gesturing around the room, “small-town bar.”
“I thought,” I correct, “fresh start.”
Gwen studies me for a moment, then nods as though that makes enough sense. We all turn as Mason pushes away from the booth and stretches. He crosses the room with purpose and hooks a finger in the belt loop of Frankie’s jeans as he passes.
