Page 30 of Luck of the Draw

“In a way, yes, Dylan. When I met her earlier in the evening, her spirit was as off-balance as yours was when I met you.”

“Off-balance?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “You never told me that.”

“That’s why I gave you the painting, dear, so you could see.” She shook her head slightly, as if she couldn’t believe how obtuse I was being. “People are always saying to show, not tell. Didn’t you notice?”

In those abstract whorls of paint? “No, I can’t say I did. I thought it was just a housewarming present.”

“Well, yes,” she said, lifting her beer for a sip and giving ahmof pleasure. “But there’s no reason it can’t be both.”

“You were talking about our souls.”

“Yes, hers was off-balance at the beginning of the night, but I was delighted to see it was much better by the end of the evening. Yours, my dear, has been improving since I met you, and the improvement last night was simply remarkable.”

“She’s not my soul mate,” I said, because even though I could be obtuse, I’d been around the block and back enough to read between some lines myself.

“Be that as it may”—she said it in the way of someone who knew I was wrong and was humoring me—“youdohave the lady’s shoes.”

“Her friend’s cousin’s shoes,” I muttered.

“And I have her address.”

I almost popped out of my chair at that. “You do?”

“I do. And I think most misunderstandings can be worked out quite easily in person, don’t you?”

I wasn’t sure if I did. Or if it would be appropriate for me to show up at Deeandra’s house after she’d made it quite clear she never wanted to see me again.

But the words from her note floated up from my subconscious.This has been the greatest fourteen hours of my life.

I rubbed between my eyes and took a swig of the beer, letting the lemony flavor wash through me. God, it was good, definitely up there with River’s best work.

“The thing is, Dottie, she walked out on me. I’m not sure that’s much of a misunderstanding.”

But those words of hers still hadn’t left my head. I couldn’t shake the thought that she hadn’t wanted to leave—that she’d maybe convinced herself she had to.

I put out my hands, palms up. “Who knows. Maybe she didn’t want to get involved with a guy who’s just a bartender. I wouldn’t hold it against her. A lot of women feel that way when you get right down to it.”

“But you’re not just a bartender, Dylan.”

“Look, it’s okay, Dottie. I don’t need pepping up. I’m fine with what I do. I’m grateful to be at Buchanan, and I have no intention of leaving.”

“You’re not just a bartender,” she said, holding my gaze. “I saw what you did with that young man when you came into the bar a couple of months ago. You did that as aguest. And I’ve watched you charm our customers and make them feel at home, and try to get Daniel, whodoestend to be a bit lazy, the dear, into line. You’re always watching for trouble and stepping in to mediate it, to make our brewery a place people want to stay. I didn’t bring you here to be a bartender, Dylan. You’re my replacement.”

“What?” I asked, almost dropping the beer.

Her smile was so wide it had to be painful. “I told Beau”—Beau being her partner, who’d passed away about a year ago—“that we would take care of his grandchildren one day, and now they’re all here, running the brewery he started.” She grasped her hands under her chin. “In love with their partners. It’s a beautiful thing, and it’s just what he wanted. But my work is done. I’m ready for new challenges.”

Of course she was. A woman like Dottie Hendrickson wasn’t about to retire in a cabin in the woods somewhere.

“Have you told everyone yet?”

“No, dear,” she said, reaching out to give my hand a squeeze. “I wanted to tell you first. This”—she gestured to the food and our beers—“is our celebration of the changing of the guard.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I don’t know what to say, Dottie. I’ve never been in charge of anyone before.”

In the Marines, I’d been a grunt. In my dad’s store, I’d been the younger brother. It had mostly felt like pity work, even though I’d been assured the store was as much mine as it was Matteo’s.

“It’s about time, don’t you think?” she said, lifting her bottle. And I drank with her, because maybe she was right.

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