Page 4 of Tackle

There was silence on the other end of the line, which Oz found fucking hilarious as Rich was never at a loss for words. Finally, his agent, who’d been with him since his junior year of college and knew more about him than Oz did himself, asked, “What fucking sister?”

Oz chuckled. “Yeah, that was my reaction too. She left a phone number, and I was trying to decide whether to call or not.”

“Whoa, hang on a minute. You don’t know this chick from Adam. Let me check her out before you make any rash decisions. I’ll do the legwork. Make sure she’s legit and not full of shit.”

That seemed fair. “All right.”

“Look, you know I’ve got your back. Your first game is next Sunday and your head needs to be in it. You concentrate on that. I’ll take care of this.”

Oz hung up and tossed his phone on the counter. Picking up the letter, he swiped his finger over the name at the bottom of the page, then stuck it with a magnet to the refrigerator.

He wasn’t sure who this Nora Olson was, but if she really was his sister, he knew he wanted to get to know her.

Chapter Two

He was back again.

Oz.

He’d arrived a little later than usual that night and Emerson had been worried he wouldn’t show at all. It made her realize how accustomed she’d grown to his presence.

He sat in his usual booth, trying hard to appear as though he wasn’t watching her, but every so often, she’d catch him in the act and their eyes would lock. And every time that happened, she felt a sharp tug at her heart, a giddiness filling her. A feeling she had no business entertaining because it had been almost a week since their first and only encounter, and he’d yet to make another move.

Emerson wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Working in the hospitality industry for as long as she has, she’d gotten pretty good at reading people so found it puzzling Oz was such a mystery. Was he shy or plain not interested in her? Was he simply being a good guy when he’d noticed her looking ready to collapse or was something more going on? His long gazes said he was interested, his actions since—or lack of them—said otherwise.

Sighing, she pulled her thoughts from Oz, pride filling her as she took in the crowded restaurant. Everything she’d worked so hard toward was finally coming to fruition. Her gaze landed on the old tin framed in a glass shadow box that held pride of place on the center of the bar wall. It had once held dozens of recipe cards, now it served as a reminder that dreams could come true with a little hard work and a lot of motivation.

For as long as Emerson could remember, feeding people had been important to her. Her passion had come from the special time she’d shared with her mother in the kitchen, creating the family’s evening meals. The radio would be playing eighties rock—her mother loved the hair bands—and the two of them would sing along, using wooden spoons or spatulas as microphones. But it hadn’t been until twenty years ago when her grandmother on her father’s side had passed that she’d become obsessed with the Irish side of her heritage.

She would never forget that trip, and not only because it had been her first time on an airplane. Her Da had looked so sad, holding her hand tightly as their family boarded the flight. She'd been too young, only eight, to appreciate she’d traveled to a whole different country, but she'd been awed by the experience. Sadly, they'd had no time to explore all of Ireland’s beauty—their visit being taken up with business—but that was something she hoped to rectify one day.

It had been while helping to pack up her gran's kitchen that Emerson had found the time-worn tin box. The inside had been crammed with aged and yellowed index cards and when she’d pulled them out, saw they were all hand-written recipes in varying scripts and ink colors and some even sprinkled with foreign words she couldn't immediately decipher. Irish Stew. Potato Candy. Corned beef and cabbage. Shepherd's pie. Bangers with mash. The cards had seemed never-ending.

Being fascinated by the discovery, she’d quickly asked her mother if she could keep the box for herself. Emerson recalled her mom had frowned down at her, but an older woman, who must've been a relative of some kind, had interrupted on her behalf, saying that her gran would've wanted her granddaughter to have them. Not giving anyone a chance to change their mind, she’d taken the box and squirreled the treasure away in her own small suitcase.

When she'd gotten home, she'd made it her mission to test every recipe. The dream of opening her very own pub had been born out of her love of cooking and a natural desire to feed people. As she'd gotten older, the dream had become more focused and those old recipes had become the inspiration for The Parting Glass’s menu. Irish classics flipped on their heads and incorporated into an American staple—burgers and fries.

But to realize that dream, she’d needed experience and money. That had been where working in restaurants ineverycapacity had come in, learning all she would need to know to run a successful business. She’d lived cheap and had socked every spare dime into a savings account until she’d had enough money for a down payment to qualify for a loan.

And now she was living her dream. The last hurdle was to start making enough of a profit to hire more staff so she could get some sleep. And judging from the crowd that filled every table, she was hopeful she was close to that goal.

Her gaze traveled back to Oz and she covertly watched him, trying to figure out what it was about him that fascinated her so. Sure he was good-looking with his long, honey-blond hair that fell to his shoulders and his manly Nordic features. But she’d never gone for the sporty types before, smooth talking executives being who she usually gravitated toward.

Speaking of businessmen. A raised hand at the end of the bar caught her attention. It belonged to a man in his mid-thirties, classically handsome, and dressed to impress in a three-piece suit. On first glance, he was her usual type.

Yet, he did nothing for her.

He’d arrived about an hour before and hadn’t been interested in food, only a beer.

“Refill?” Emerson motioned to his empty mug.

“Let’s make it a shot of whiskey this time.”

Her brow raised. “Bad day?”

“More like long.” He had a nice smile, but now that he mentioned it, she could see the exhaustion lining his eyes.

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