Page 16 of Just My Luck

“Abel,” Bootsy greeted with a wide grin, sidling up to the bar. His innocent eyes sparkled, but there was always a lingering sense that he was sniffing around for information.

“Bootsy.” I returned his greeting with a curt nod. “What brings you in tonight?” My tone remained neutral, though resentment simmered beneath the surface. His allegiance to my father grated on me, a constant reminder of the complex dynamics within my own family.

“Just thought I’d drop by for a cold one,” Bootsy replied, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents surrounding him as he fumbled for crinkled dollar bills that spilled from his pocket and onto the floor. “How’s everything going?”

“Busy as always,” I replied, pouring him a pint. “You know how it is.” I slid the pint toward him and waved away the cash. “On me.”

“Appreciate that.” He nodded with a grin. As Bootsy took a sip, he glanced around the brewery, his eyes always observant. The regulars engaged in conversation, and the atmosphere was relaxed despite the underlying tension in my own neck and jaw.

Bootsy leaned in, his tone conspiratorial. “Heard anything interesting lately, Abel?”

I raised an eyebrow, not fooled by his feigned innocence. “Just the usual, Bootsy. What’s on your mind?”

He chuckled, his simple demeanor masking a shrewdness that unnerved me. “Oh, you know, just curious about the town gossip. People talk, and I like to listen. Matter of fact, people been talking they seen you at the bank.” He sipped and his eyes watched me over the glass.

A greasy knot tightened in my stomach. I looked around, and Sloane caught my eye from across the room. Her eyes narrowed as she finished with her table and made her way toward the bar with a tray of empty glasses.

I couldn’t let Bootsy’s probing go unchecked. “Just regular business. Nothing exciting around here lately.”

He shrugged, seemingly unbothered. “Just doing my job, Abel. Mr. King likes to stay informed.”

The mention of my father irked me, but I kept my composure. The brewery, with its eclectic mix of patrons, was a melting pot of stories and subtle alliances. It wasn’t as divided as the Grudge—where Kings sat on one side and Sullivans on the other—but old habits died hard. I couldn’t afford to let Bootsy’sloyalty to Russell King disrupt the fragile balance I was trying to create.

To my surprise, Sloane marched up to the bar, settling next to Bootsy. “Hey, you’re the guy who sells jewelry on the beach, right?”

I slid her tray toward me and made quick work of cleaning the dirty glasses, all while listening in to their conversation.

Bootsy chuckled, taking another sip. “You’ve got me pegged, young lady.” Bootsy was proud of his creations, and Sloane was feeding right into it. “That’s me.”

“Wow.” Sloane angled her body so Bootsy paid attention to her and forgot all about the probing he was attempting only moments earlier. “You know, I’d love something simple. Maybe something matching for my daughter and me.”

“Oh yes. I have something perfect.” Bootsy rifled around in his pockets, depositing old receipts, gum wrappers, and bits of sand and trash on the bar top.

Sloane glanced over with a sly smile and winked.

It was a wonder she didn’t hear my visible gulp.

Bootsy, lost in the attention Sloane was giving him, held up two not-at-all-matching bracelets made of broken shells and what looked like bits of plastic trash.

“Oh!” Sloane fawned. “That’s perfect. I’ll take them.”

Bootsy stated his price—far too much for beach trash if you ask me—and Sloane slipped a bill from her apron to pay for the bracelets with her tips.

High off her attention, Bootsy all but forgot his reason for digging up dirt in my brewery.

I wiped down Sloane’s tray and pushed it across the bar toward her. I leaned in so only she could hear. “You know that’s just broken bits of trash he collects on the beach, right?”

Sloane flicked her wrist, and the pair of bracelets swished and sparkled on her arm. “Some of us can see beauty in what others would call trash. Even something broken can be loved.”

With a lift of her shoulder, she reached over the bar to retrieve her tray and walk away with the flick of her ponytail.

As the night continued, I juggled the demands of the bar, the echoes of my past mistakes, and Bootsy’s ever-watchful presence, though he’d softened after his exchange with Sloane. Her unwavering support offered a semblance of comfort, but the fear of being forever defined by my past lingered at the edges.

Even something broken can be loved.

My chest was hot and tight as her words rolled around in my head. The brewery, with its quirky charm and familiar faces, remained a sanctuary of possibilities. The dream of making this brewery truly mine, independent of my father’s shadow, burned brighter than ever, fueled by the sunshine lent to me from one irresistible woman.

I’d never believed it before, but a tiny ember of hope sparked to life.

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