Page 6 of Just My Luck

The words hit hard, a gut punch I half expected but prayed wouldn’t come. My gaze dropped to the floor briefly before meeting Mr. Lowell’s eyes again. “I served my time. Paid my dues,” I muttered, the bitterness of my past choices lingering on my tongue.

Mr. Lowell sighed, his expression sympathetic but stern. “I understand, Mr. King, but as a result, you do have a disruptedcredit history due to your period of incarceration. Additionally, there’s the issue of collateral. A lack of substantial assets is a barrier for approval.”

My throat went tight, my back rigid. I knew this would be the outcome, but having it spelled out in plain terms was a tough blow.

Mr. Lowell sighed. “It’s a risk the bank is not willing to take at this time. You see, we have to consider our investors, our reputation. Approving a loan for someone with a criminal history such as yours, well, it’s not seen favorably.”

I clenched my fists, fighting the surge of frustration. The burden of my past weighed heavily, not only on my conscience but on my aspirations. “I’ve changed,” I argued, desperation creeping into my voice.

His expression softened as he nodded, acknowledging my plea. “I don’t doubt that, Abel, but it’s a complicated situation. And, if I may be frank, there’s another factor at play here.”

I frowned, my brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

Mr. Lowell hesitated again, choosing his words carefully. “Your father is a significant figure in this town. His influence extends beyond the brewery. Going against his wishes, especially in a matter like this, could have real consequences.”

A bitter taste filled my mouth. I’d hoped to distance myself from my father’s shadow, carve out my own path. Yet there I was, faced with the harsh reality that his name carried more weight than my aspirations. The denial of the loan wasn’t just about my criminal record—it was about a power play in a town where my father’s influence was a force to be reckoned with.

Dejected, I shook Mr. Lowell’s hand and excused myself, tail tucked between my legs. On the long walk back, I didn’t bother looking up and acknowledging any of the tourists or townies I passed on my walk back to the brewery.

I had known better than to chase dreams I didn’t have any right to hold.

THREE

SLOANE

The buzzof a packed evening at Abel’s Brewery pulsed with life as I navigated through the boisterous crowd. Laughter and the clinking of glasses melded into a friendly hum, creating an atmosphere that was invigorating and alive. The scent of hops and malt wafted through the evening air floating out of the open garage door that faced the beach. I soaked in the comforting embrace that wrapped me in the familiarity of this small town I was learning to call my own.

“Hey, Sloane, we could use another round over here!” Tall Chad’s voice cut through the chatter, and I shot him a playful salute before making my way to the taps. In Outtatowner, it seemed the majority of people who’d grown up there held random nicknames, but it only added to the small-town charm.

I dried my hands on my hips and slipped behind the bar. The draft poured smoothly into the glasses, creating a cascade of amber as I bounced to the beat of the music and rolled the stiffness from my shoulders.

Layna, the first friend I ever made in Outtatowner, sat at the bar, strumming chords on her acoustic guitar. The twang of sad country songs floated above the din of the crowd, blending seamlessly with the hum of conversation. I couldn’t help butsmile as Layna caught my eye, her playful wink acknowledging our shared connection to the rhythm of the town.

After Tall Chad picked up his drinks, I walked toward Layna, sidestepping the other bartender who was serving with me that night.

I smiled at my friend. “You’re giving the Grudge a run for its money tonight.”

The Grudge was Outtatowner’s downtown honky-tonk, and if people weren’t at Abel’s, they were there. Layna grinned, fingers still strumming. “Someone’s gotta inject some life into this joint. But if I get a gig at the Grudge, I’m gone.”

We laughed, sharing a moment amid the lively ambiance. Layna’s music added a layer of warmth to the brewery, the familiar country tunes resonating with the patrons who swayed to the rhythm. It was these connections, these shared experiences, that made this town feel like more than just a collection of people—it was a place of shared stories and laughter.

As the song ended, Layna set her guitar aside. I moved quickly to slide her a fresh beer, and she leaned in. “So what’s new? I feel like if I don’t see you here, I never see you.”

I rolled my eyes, playfully nudging her. “You know how it is. I’m just the purveyor of good vibes and well-poured pints. Flying solo with two kids doesn’t make a social life that easy.”

She smiled, an understanding softness in her eyes. “You’re doing a great job with those kids.”

A knot formed in my throat. Most days I was white-knuckling it through life, but if I had my best friends fooled, maybe I was doing something right.

The front entrance swung open, and Abel stormed through the doorway. Mischief glittered in my eye as a zip of excitement ran through me. I’d been thinking of other—less naked—ways to needle him since this morning’s incident went awry.

“Jesus, he’s scary.” Layna’s voice was barely a whisper as she leaned in. Together we watched the owner skulk and disappear down the darkened hallway of the brewery. Like it always did, his brooding presence stood out amid the lively patrons.

My brow furrowed. There was a sharper edge to his demeanor tonight, a heaviness that hadn’t been there before. Something weighed on him, and my mischievous instincts sensed this wasn’t the time for playful banter.

My shoulder lifted as I aimlessly wiped down the bar top. I thought back to how endearing it had been when he’d tried to apologize for staring at my boobs. “Sometimes he’s not that bad.”

A disbelieving scoff escaped my friend. “He did hard time in prison, you know.”

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