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Too late.
They stalked to the locker rooms. Lincoln got in the shower. A bruise spread across his ribs, reaching toward the burn and shrapnel scars webbing his shoulder and the upper part of his left arm. He closed his eyes and soaped up quickly.
After changing into jeans and a gray shirt, his blood was still hot, his muscles tense. Fighting his brother didn’t feel any better thannotfighting him. The only good thing was that he hadn’t thought about Grace once in the past couple of hours.
Until now.
After taping the cut on his cheek, he left the locker room just as Sam was heading out into the dimly lit parking lot. Their eyes met with a glare of animosity.
Lincoln told himself to take the high road. He hated the fucking high road.
“Come on.” Sam started toward his truck. “Let’s get a beer. Loser pays. That would be you.”
Though Lincoln didn’t relish the idea of sitting at a bar with his brother, his other option was to go back to his motel room and nurse his wounds while obsessing about Grace.
With a short nod, he headed to his car. Clouds billowed over the sky, and rain was starting to fall.
Fifteen minutes later, he and Sam were both pulling into the Mousehole parking lot. It was close to seven, and the tavern was busy with the Saturday night dinner crowd.
They found a couple of empty seats at the bar and ordered two beers. Grant set the pints down in front of them, jutting his chin at Lincoln. “Where’d you get the shiner?”
Lincoln nodded toward Sam. Grant lifted his eyebrows, put a bowl of peanuts in front of them, and turned to another customer.
“You ever think of going pro?” Lincoln asked his brother.
“Nah.” Sam took a healthy swallow of beer. “I was never any good at that level of commitment and drive. I boxed as an outlet, not a career path.”
“You could’ve just pretended all your opponents were me.”
“I did.”
They both laughed. Lincoln rotated his shoulders back, easing the stiffness.
“Man, you pissed me off when we were kids,” he said. “You still do.”
“Likewise.” Sam picked up a peanut and began shelling it. “I hated that you were better at everything.”
“So did I.”
Sam scoffed. “Yeah, it must’ve been rough to be so fucking good.”
“Oh, shut the hell up.” Lincoln lifted the pint and took a gulp. “You’ve been whining for years about getting pushed into the background…and yeah, I get that it sucked sometimes, but you had a lot of freedom. And you have a great life now, so get over it.”
“I am over it.” Sam ate the peanut and reached for another. “Why do you think I want to stay in Bliss Cove? It’s more than just a nice town. I have a great life because ofBrooke, man. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. She’s everything—smart, beautiful, kind, giving…hell, she’s like sunshine. And she pickedme. It’s like I won all the lotteries in history. So don’t give me shit about getting over it. You’re the one stuck with the Atwood name and company.”
“You want to know why I didn’t get rid of Folio? Because it belongs to us. And if youwereover it, you’d see that it could be a solid company again. One that supports good authors. Instead you can’t get past the fact that it used to belong to our father.”
Sam was silent for a moment. “So what’s your plan for the genre fiction imprints?”
“I don’t have one.” Lincoln rubbed his forehead. “We’ve been publishing the same slate of authors for years. Same branding, marketing, publicity. There’s been no innovation. No new voices or ideas. That’s why the board wants to get rid of them.”
“So what will you do if the vote goes in your favor?”
Lincoln took another swallow of beer. “Honestly, I don’t know much about genre fiction. I don’t have a plan, which is why I want your help. But working with Grace…she was telling me about how she likes to teach underrepresented writers and about the birds and a forest—”
“Birds and a forest?”
“Well, yeah, and it got me thinking Folio could do something like that with genre fiction.” Lincoln frowned. The idea had been poking at him ever since Grace told him about the forest, but he didn’t know how it could develop into a plan.
