Page 40 of Hart Breaker

“Were they?—”

I nod. “She was driving. Mick thought she was being a friend and picking his drunk ass up.” I shake my head. “Everyone still thinks that, and I’ll never tell them any different.” I look at him as I pull my hand back, readying myself for what’s to come.

“I’m so sorry you went through that,” he says quietly.

I smile slightly. “Dad and I worked through it; focused on a project.”

“The Brewery.”

I nod. “The property was a mess, but it saved me from losing my mind.” I look up. “And so did Brett.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t reach for his phone or say anything.

I exhale. “The week before Brett and I got back together, Mick and I met at the bar where we met and worked at on the two-year anniversary of their deaths. He looked like hell. He’d lost a ton of weight and was tweaking when he told me he found messages on her phone between them. I told him if he got his shit together, I wanted him to come run the kitchen.”

He smiles and nods. “You did good work.”

I shake my head. “He’s so freaking good, Hart. His talent is lost at the brewery, and when he’s ready to take on his own place, I’m going to kick his ass out of the Barn so he can show the world who the fuck Mick Mahone is.”

“Make sure he tells you the secret to how he makes potato skins taste like they came from heaven.”

I smile. “Right?”

He smiles back. “Yeah, no, he can’t leave.”

I could get totally lost in this—the easy way Hart and I can talk about anything—but after this, that ease will be gone.

I lean back and cross my arms around my middle. “He took off that night after telling me he’d be in touch. I proceeded to get shitfaced. I knew, but having confirmation killed me.”

“I get that.” He nods.

Looking down, I continue. “I, um, decided to fuck him out of my system, so I did just that.”

“For sure a better choice than shooting up.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I know it’s crazy, but I wanted to hurt him, so I did it right in the bar where he and I spent ninety percent of our relationship.” I glance up at him.

“I mean, you do what you gotta do.”

“Almost three years ago.”

He nods.

“In Syracuse.”

His eyes narrow, and we stare at each other for a little bit, and I swear I see it clicking.

“Ask the question, Hudson.”

He steps back and crosses his arms, glancing at his phone. “Were you and fuckwit together?”

“No, not then. A couple weeks later,” I answer.

He glances back at me. “I’m still a bit fucked up here, Riley, so I’m not sure I should ask the most looming question I have.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat. “I think you should.”

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