Page 72 of Any Luck at All

Georgie tried to focus on what he was saying, but deep inside she was freaking out that he’d signed those papers so easily. She’d sworn that she would fight for him. She only hoped she could live up to it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

He’d made it almost two weeks. That was something, wasn’t it?

Professional Georgie hadn’t so much as cracked. Not that she’d given herself much of an opportunity—a lot of the time they spent together they had some sort of chaperone: Aunt Dottie or Tom or another employee, or Jack on whatever video app she used. Still, he’d catch her looking at him sometimes, a longing in her eyes that made him want to say to hell with it and reach for her, except he couldn’t do that. And not because of some stupid piece of paper. He couldn’t do it because he’d promised her.

Sometimes he wondered what he was doing. It was too hard, being around her constantly and knowing he couldn’t be with her. Especially since he clicked with Professional Georgie just as well as he did with the Georgie that let her hair down. They shared a vision, and he knew that for the rarity it was.

They’d taste-tested a few beers and ciders together one afternoon to narrow down the flavor profile he was trying to achieve with the new brews—the level of hops from bottle A, with the fruit finish from bottle B—and he’d been reminded of that first night. Of the promise he’d felt between them. Of the freedom of not having to worry about things like professionalism and paperwork.

At least they’d decided on the beers they were making, plus he’d gotten in batches of Beau Brown, Lurch White, and Donuts for Dottie. (Beau hadn’t been too creative in the naming department, but it had been part of his charm.) The party planning was going full steam ahead too, both for the Kill the Keg party, which they were calling Bury the Brewery. Somewhat ominous, but the bigger launch party they were already planning for fall would be Buchanan Brewery Rises. Jack had commented that at least it was better than We Cleaned the Piss Pots, Please Come Back. Georgie had, of course, insisted on being involved in every stage of Aunt Dottie’s after-party planning (in the nicest but firmest way possible). Still, he knew his aunt would have surprises up her sleeve. She always did.

The worst part of the last week was not having anyone to talk to about it. Finn would’ve told him he was nuts for signing that contract. Perhaps rightly so. But he still wasn’t talking to Finn. There’d been some check-in texts from the other Big Catch staffers, some invitations for drinks, but he didn’t feel up to it yet. They’d want to talk about the sale, about Finn, and most certainly about Buchanan. He didn’t. Finn had texted him a few times too, saying he urgently needed to talk to him about something, but he’d ignored the messages—in fact, he rarely picked up his phone anymore. Every time he did, there were at least fifteen texts about Jezebel. Plenty of people had seen her, but much to Aunt Dottie’s consternation, they all had a common approach: run and then text River.

Of course, by the time he got to the intersection where they’d seen her feasting on trash or chasing a child into a tree, she’d be long gone. He could have blocked their numbers, but the sadness in his aunt’s eyes whenever she spoke about the cat prevented it.

Aunt Dottie talked to him, of course—she’d insisted on him coming over for dinner three times in the past week, but she always tried to hearten him, to reassure him that the stars were aligned in his favor and the tea she’d tricked him into drinking had left distinct hearts in the leaves at the bottom. Somehow her encouragement made everything harder.

And then there was Maisie—she’d been avoiding him like he had the plague, all while insisting she did. Something he wasn’t so sure he believed given he’d called the shelter a few days ago and Dustin had acted surprised, and then interested, when he’d said Maisie was sick.

“Reallllly,” he’d said, drawing it out, and River could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind.

He wanted to make things right, but he wasn’t sure how if she wouldn’t talk to him. Giving her space hadn’t worked. It was Thursday afternoon, just a couple of days before the big Buchanan closing party on Saturday, and he wanted her to be there. So he’d decided to ambush her at the shelter. Something he could do since it was technically his day off. (Sure, he’d spent the morning in the office, but truth be told, he’d only gone so he could see Georgie.)

He came bearing expensive coffee and the right kind of muffins, and he felt oddly nervous. The last thing he’d meant to do was hurt her, but it seemed like he wasn’t doing anything right lately.

One of the volunteers he recognized—luckily not Dustin—let him in, and pointed him toward the playroom when he asked for Maisie.

“She’ll be grateful for the coffee,” the volunteer said with a smile. “She’s been pulling long hours with Beatrice all week on the new funding drive.”

Which meant she almost certainly hadn’t been sick, not that he’d really believed her story. Still, it put a pit in his stomach that she’d lied to him. That she’d gone out of her way not to see him. That she’d left him like Georgie, like Finn, like Beau. But he could still make things right with Maisie.

He had to.

He knocked on the door, using the secret knock they’d developed as teens, and instead of answering, she just opened it.

Shedidlook tired. Her hair was still wet, flatter than it would be in a few hours when it finally dried and the curls sprang up, and the circles under her eyes made it look like she hadn’t been sleeping.

But something inside of him eased upon seeing her. The look in her eyes told him she was glad he was here. That she didn’t want him to leave.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said, lifting up the cup and the bag.

She lifted an eyebrow, and before she could say anything, he preempted her with, “And yes, it is the right kind of muffin.”

“Thank God,” she said, taking his offerings. “Otherwise I would have had to send you back, and you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

She ushered him in, and he felt all the relief of being wanted.

Part of him had expected another avalanche of puppies, but the dog in the room was one he hadn’t seen before, a red husky.

“A new kid?” he asked, nodding to the dog, who’d padded over and was sniffing him with interest. Smelling Hops, no doubt.

“Meet Tyrion, the escape artist. Owner was watching too muchGame of Thrones, confused huskies for direwolves, and realized they’re a lot of work.”

She shrugged, but he caught the flash of righteous anger in her eyes. It would never sit all right with her that people abandoned their dogs, or their children.

“Good thing he found you,” he said, and meant it.

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