Page 3 of Tackle

She shook her head. “Though, I did run every morning until I opened this place.”

“Being the owner, you must keep long hours.”

She stole another fry and popped it into her mouth, taking the time to chew before answering. Oz didn’t mind, as long as it kept her there talking with him.

“I do.” She held up a hand. “Not that I’m complaining. This pub is something I’ve been dreaming about my whole life. It’s just…” Her words trailed off and she waved a dismissive hand. “Ignore me. I think lack of sleep is starting to addle my brain.”

Oz didn’t like the sound of that. “Can you hire more help?”

She opened her mouth, her chest rising as though she were about to say something, but then she snapped it closed. She shook her head, chuckling, but it sounded humorlessly directed at herself. “I’m sure you didn’t come here today to conduct a therapy session.”

He’d almost worked up the nerve to tell her he didn’t mind, but before he could spit the words out, a man wearing a food-stained apron stepped out of the kitchen and called Emerson’s name.

“And that’s my cue to get back to work.” Sliding out of the booth, she looked sincere when she said, “It was nice talking with you.”

He watched her walk away and disappear through the door, following the chef. A few minutes later, his usual waitress came by and dropped off his check with a wink. Curious, he flipped the paper over, but instead of the usual meal charges, there was a note.

Oz,

Thanks for sweeping me off my feet. See you again soon,

Emerson

Did she mean that figuratively or literally?

He looked toward the bar, but Emerson wasn’t behind it. Scanning the room, he didn’t see her there either. He stood and even knowing the meal had been free, reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and tossed it on the table, slipping the note in its place before sticking his wallet back in his pocket and making his way out of the restaurant.

A creature of habit, Oz liked to keep close to home, and was at the gate to the underground parking garage of his mid-priced, high-rise apartment complex in a matter of minutes, waving at the guy who manned the security booth as he drove through. He made plenty of money to live someplace fancier—like Linc who had a condo on the water—but Oz forwent snazzy creature comforts like concierge service and balconies with hot tubs in favor of being within spitting distance of work. One day he’d build his dream home—when he had someone to share it with.

That had his mind immediately thinking of Emerson. His whole encounter with her still felt a little surreal, unbelieving he’d actually had the courage to talk with her. He thought of the note he’d slipped into his wallet. Proof if he needed to convince himself it had really happened and the whole thing hadn’t been a figment of his imagination.

He stopped in the lobby to check his mail, noticing a large manila envelope from his management company but waited until he took the elevator up to his apartment before opening it.

Throwing his keys on the kitchen counter, he tore open the package and dumped the contents. He sorted through a few letters from fans, putting aside the ones from kids—those he liked to answer personally. One in particular caught his attention—the address handwritten in a neatly flowing script and the envelope unopened for screening. Curious, he slid his finger under the flap to break the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Reading the first few sentences, it didn’t take long to realize it wasn’t from a fan as he’d thought it would be.

Oz let the blue-lined sheet of carefully penned words drop from his fingers and watched unseeingly as it floated to the countertop. Breathing out a harsh gust, he raked his fingers through his hair. The letter was from someone claiming to be his sister, but there was one problem with that claim.

He didn’t have a sister.

Though fuck, he guessed itwaspossible. His old man had taken off when he’d been eight years old never to be heard from by him or his mother again.

No child support or alimony.

No split custody or weekend visits.

Hell, not even a fucking birthday or Christmas card.

One day his father had been in his life and the next he’d vanished. If he’d left to start a new life—a new family—then, yeah, he supposed he could have a sister.

Oz thought back to his childhood. After his father had split, his mother had worked two jobs, leaving him on his own a lot. It would’ve been nice having a sibling to help beat back the loneliness. His mom had done the best she could and Oz loved her for that, but it wasn’t until football that the gap his father had made had been filled, his coaches becoming a stand-in for the father figure missing in his life.

Going to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water, he cracked it open and took a long swig, thinking about the letter. He wasn’t sure what to believe but he sure as hell wasn’t opening that can of worms with his mom with no proof other than the say so of a woman calling herself Nora Olson.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he glanced at the letter again, more specifically, the phone number under the name. But he didn’t dial it. Instead, he called the one person in his life who he knew would give him frank advice. His agent, Richard.

“Oz! I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. You got the deal I sent over?”

A man of few words, Oz got straight to the point. “Just got it, but I haven’t read through it yet. I’m more interested in a letter that came in the package with it. From a woman named Nora Olson. Claims she’s my sister.”

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