Page 79 of Kyle

“It’s a lot.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Yes. But without Sutton, it all feels meaningless.” I scrape my thumb nail down the label of my bottle.

“Baby, look at me.”

I lift my eyes.

“You have a family to help you. Hell, you have the entire club to help you. Cole made that phone call for you. He also said they’d help with any labor you need to get it cleaned up andready. You have to make a life a woman would want to be a part of, son. Make that life.”

I stare at her, knowing she’s right but finding it hard to find the energy or enthusiasm to do any of it. It sounds exhausting, and I realize I may be in the throes of depression.

She stands and puts her hand on my shoulder, then drops a phone number on the table. “Cole pulled in a favor for you. At least go see the place. Okay?”

She presses a kiss to my forehead. Then walks out the front door.

I follow and stare out the window, making sure she gets in the car safely, and I stay until she drives away.

Then I return to the table and plop down. I stare at the phone number for a long time, before I drag in a long breath and decide to just get it over with. Then I can say I did what she asked.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Kyle—

Lifting a taster spoon, I check the big pot of chicken chili, and give Melissa a thumbs up.

“You ready?” I ask.

“Absolutely. Let’s kick the tires and take it for a spin, boss.”

I chuckle. She’s only filling in for the grand opening and until I’m sure my staff is up to the task. “You’re adorable. Especially with the apron and hat.”

“Hey, this hat beats a hairnet by a mile. And Iamadorable, thank you very much.”

“You talkin’ smack, woman?” Billy yells from where he’s manning the grill.

“Mind your grill, ol’ man,” she sasses back.

I check the clock on the wall. “We open in five minutes, people.”

“We’re ready, boss,” Rafe says, sniffling from the chopping block where he’s slicing onions.

I look over, his eyes watering.

“You cryin’, brother?”

“I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

I roll my eyes and walk from the kitchen, through the dining room, checking that every table and booth is set up properly with condiments and the specials menus I had printed.

I lift my chin to the prospect in civilian clothes, manning the bar. “You ready, kid?”

“Ready, boss.”

“What’s the special today?” I quiz him.

“Two-dollar margaritas and five-dollar pitchers of beer.”

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