Page 23 of Bourbon and Proof

Prue pops her head up from her book and answers instead. “Speaking of best man—Hadley Jean, there’s only one left...You going to snag him?”

Romey bats her sister's arm. “Stop that right now. Ace is not the marrying kind. And look at her?—”

Griz leans into me and says, “See, I’m not the only one noticing.”

Jesus Christ, it’s too early for this.I fold my arms on the countertop and blow out an exasperated breath.

“I am looking...” Prue says. “She looks better hungover and annoyed than most of us ever look on our best day.”

Marla waves them off as she stands in front of us, waiting for our order.

Griz asks for cakes and eggs as I stare off at the specials board. Why is everyone so hard up to marry me off? I hate that, for this crowd, being married is a solution for happiness. I am happy. Mostly. I think.

“I’m going to bring you what I want if you don’t tell me in the next few seconds,” Marla barks out. She’s such a grumpy bitch. I love her.

My smile cracks as I say, “Bring me whatever you want, Marla.”

Jimmy Dugan talks with Griz about some of the rumors that have been swirling around. I overhear him say, “I’ll be on patrol, third shift to start, but it’s better than issuing parking tickets on Main.” He releases a nervous exhale and adds, “I don’t envy Del lately, either. He and the FBI team are dealing with another body surfacing down by Fiasco Falls. The PD softball team likes to talk a lot, and then they say to be quiet, so I’m not really sure what the hell I’m supposed to do.” Shrugging, he takes another sip ofhis coffee. “Probably not yammering on with you. Honestly, if I could steer clear of any of that, I’d be happy. Blood and bad guys aren’t in my wheelhouse.”

“Jimmy,” Griz says. “You do realize you’re on the police force, right? Bad guys and some violence are in the description.”

He shoves a piece of buttermilk pie in his mouth and says, “Yeah, I know, but Ace said...”

That’s all I hear before a very loud sob rings out from the far end of the counter. Vinny from Fiasco Flowers chokes back a cry while he’s talking with his partner.

Marla brings out her “nesting egg” dish—over medium eggs on top of arugula and wilted spinach surrounded by crispy hash browns and strips of bacon.

“This is perfect,” I beam.

She gives me a tight-lipped smile and pours a refill of coffee.

“What’s going on over there?” I ask.

“Vinny has to close up shop. Not enough foot traffic to keep the storefront anymore.” I’ve known the tourists have been sparse, but Vinny’s run that flower shop since I was a kid. It makes my chest ache to think this might be the reality for more than just Vinny if things don’t change soon.

My phone buzzes, and this time, when I see an unknown number, my stomach doesn’t churn. For some reason, the words coming through feel more like kindling.

UNKNOWN

Pumpkin, you will pay out what has been requested. I will not ask again. DO NOT make me remind you that while you may control the finances of Finch & King, I do not need your permission to utilize what is mine. Do not ignore me. You will regret it.

My father.He is the only person who calls me that—pumpkin. How he’s still able to access burner phones is a massive flaw in our system. I’ve never hit delete and added to junk so fast. Permission is something I sought out when I was younger. The approval of doing something I was supposed to do, and the nod from authority when I did, felt right. Maybe I’m a good girl at heart. Masking the vulnerability of what that truly means, as society would define it—a weak connotation, submissive, and uptight. I’m not even a fraction of any of those things. I’ve made sure of it.

As a kid, I would’ve told you I was a daddy’s girl. The only good thing my mother left was an empty black notebook and a sweet, albeit morbid, note on the first page:My darling girl, you are so much stronger than you’ll ever know. I’ll love you even when I’m gone.She swallowed a lot of pills, and then took a bath. My father said it was the weak way out of hard things. I always thought he was right, until I realized maybe he was the reason she felt like she had no other choice.

Regardless of how my mother left us, it meant it was just me and him from then on. A child and an aggressively eager businessman who measures success in money and influence. I didn’t realize that until I was older. If I looked back in my black book, it would be crystal clear, but while you’re living it, toxic people don’t seem hazardous.

Most of the time, from as far back as I can remember, I was left to figure out my own meals. Hooch’s for a bite when the fridge wasn’t stocked. Donuts for breakfast on Sundays. I tucked myself into bed. Made my own doctor appointments. I figured out the simple things, like having to keep a bedtime if I didn’t want to be exhausted for school. And the closest thing to approval was only when I was riding horses or playing the part of the loving daughter. On the occasion we spent time together, it was always in the company of horse trainers and jockeys,or someone who could be considered influential to my father’s career. The last name Finch has always been associated with horses and money. As I grew up, respect from others for my last name did too.

The authority figure I looked up to was never interested in my well-being. My father has only ever been interested in being obeyed and the visuals of being a loving father, not the actual role of it.

My phone buzzes again and a twinge of nerves works down my arms and settles in my stomach as I look at a picture of me. Sitting in this spot from mere moments ago when I was looking down at my phone.

I glance around the space and behind me. Everyone who’s here right now, I recognize. The angle is from the side windows, but when I look up, nobody is there. This time, the image is from a different number. It’s not from my father, or from any of the other host of texts that have been flooding in. No words or threats, just the confirmation that I’m being watched. I sit taller and push my shoulders back. Suppressing a shiver of unease, I turn off my phone and stuff it into my pocket.

For the last decade of my life, I looked at permission as the antithesis of everything I chose to do. In my father’s eyes, opening a speakeasy, gallivanting as a single woman throughout town, living on my own—hell, even having family dinners with the Foxxes—was a directfuck youto the narcissist who barely raised me. There’s something wildly addictive about finding out exactly what you’re made of when blood is nothing more than an unfortunate scientific connection.

I let out a sarcastic laugh, because the joke is on me. As much as I want to yell a giant “fuck you” at my father and all of the text messages and threats that keep coming, middle fingers and loud words are simply reactions. It won’t stop or stall any of it. I don’t have any upper hand here, other than to ignore what theyall want. And despite the way my skin goes taut, or my heart rate picks up when my phone vibrates or someone I don’t recognize spends too long looking at me, ignoring them and not paying a damn cent is the least helpless thing I can think of doing.

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