Page 53 of Tattered Edges

“Because I didn’t know I’d wind up owning the pub. Had my Uncle Henry survived, it would have been his business now, not mine. Maybe we would have split it, I don’t know. I started working there to put off a career in economics; a bit of a gap year, if you will. I wound up loving it, and my grandfather would never have forced me out. Economics was fine, but it had always been my father’s choice, not mine.”

There was so much in his answer I wanted to explore. I wasn’t sure where to begin. That wasn’t the first time I’d heard of his uncle’s passing—but I’d yet to unearth how it happened or how long ago.

Except, the next thing out of my mouth was, “Was your father disappointed you’d chosen the pub over, I guess, a morewhite-collarcareer?”

“A little. But only because he’d hoped our jobs would be one more thing we had in common. He got over it. Hard to fault a man for wanting to get involved in the family business, even if it is on my mother’s side. It was my choice, and my parents are nothing if not supportive.”

“That’s nice,” I murmured, curious how much of his confidence came from the love and support of his parents.

“What about you?” he asked, turning the tables on me before I could get out another question of my own. “A PhD in English Literature? I get it, you’re surrounded by books—but I don’t know anybody who goes through the trouble of a doctorate degree to work in a bookshop. You could have been a professor or a researcher.”

A hint of a humorless laugh sounded from the back of my throat, but I wasn’t sure if he heard it. Our server picked that moment to arrive with our cocktails, and I had the chance to take a breath before I told him the truth.

“My mom was a writer. She wrote more than a dozen best-sellers. Stories were her whole life. It’s hard to explain, but she wanted me to be her echo. Not necessarily a fiction author, but notable in the world of literature somehow, and I wanted nothing of the sort. Not because I didn’t have an appreciation for the art of the written word—the exact opposite, honestly. I just wanted her to love me no matter what, not under any conditions of who I turned out to be.

“Anyway, I rebelled against her desires, like a typical, angsty daughter, and didn’t think about what I wanted outside of putting her in her place. It wasn’t until after she died that I went back to school to earn my PhD. I’d like to believe a part of me did it because it was what I wanted to do all along—but another part of meknowsI did it because I didn’t know what to do after I’d lost her.”

I frowned, uncertain whether or not anything I was saying made any sense. Then, dropping my gaze down into my drink, I concluded, “I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life until I got here. Now, out of stubbornness or pride or destiny—if such a thing is real—I feel like I’m doing something I care about. I’m preserving something of value, something with a history. My ownership of Tattered Edges is tradition. Maybe it’s a tradition from a family that doesn’t want me—but,” I paused then, lifting my gaze once more. “Sawyer Blackstone left the store to the only one of his children who would keep it going. He didn’t know it, but he did. And it feels important.”

The expression on Rory’s face was not one I understood. I couldn’t tell if I’d bored him or overshared. Nervous it might have been a little of both, I forced a smile and said awkwardly, “That was a long-winded way of saying: it’s complicated.”

“Trust me, I understand the significance of keeping alive a business that was handed down to you.”

Our bacon-wrapped-dates were delivered to the table. Before our server left, he asked after our dinner order. We both opted for the same entrée, and our menus were finally collected from the table.

“Can I ask a sensitive question?” I asked, smoothing my napkin across my lap.

“Go ahead.”

“What happened to your uncle? The night I sat down with Hattie, she mentioned Henry, too.”

“He got hit by a car and died,” he told me straight. “He was out on foot in a horrible fog. The driver didn’t see him until it was too late.”

“Oh,” I breathed, sinking back in my chair. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah. It was a tough loss. It’s been twelve years, and my mum still cries on the anniversary. He was well loved.”

“I’m—I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Silence settled between us for a few seconds. Rory filled his appetizer plate with a few dates. When I didn’t move to do the same, he did it for me.

“You asked the question, and I answered. There’s no reason our conversation has to die because of it,” he teased.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things so heavy.”

“Make it up to me, then. Pick a lighter topic.”

He said it with a straight face, but I could see the amusement in his eyes.

Everyone knew, eyes were the windows to the soul. But those blue irises weren’t just windows—they were a secret passageway as much as they were a billboard, expressing what his mouth wouldn’t.

My lips tipped into a smile.

“Okay. Tell me—are you a complete snob when you order a cocktail you haven’t made? Do you judge it and compare it to yours?”

“Absolutely,” he replied without blinking.

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