Page 9 of Cold as Stone
My heart skips a beat. “You’re selling the bar?”
“Thinking about it. Problem is, this place…” He gestures around the room, taking in the peeling paint and the cigarette-stainedwalls and the general air of beautiful decay. “It’s not just a business. It’s a lifeline for a lot of people. Your mom included.”
I remain silent at that comment.
“It needs someone who understands that this place is about connection. Someone who won’t just rip it apart and slap on some laminate flooring and a rustic fucking beer sign from some trashy website.”
I tilt my head. “Are you… warning me off?”
“Nope.” He meets my eyes. “I’m offering it to you.”
My heart stutters.
“You wantmeto take over Devil’s?”
He shrugs. “You flip houses. I’ve seen your work. You’ve got a good eye. Clean lines, strong bones. This place? It’s got the bones. It just needs someone to see past the nicotine stains and ghosts.”
I blink. “You’ve seen my work?”
“’Course. Your mom showed me.”
I file that tidbit away for future Kya’s consideration. I’m too raw right now to give it any sort of attention.
I look around at the bar. The worn floorboards. The dim lights. The jukebox that still somehow plays even when no one’s touched it in hours.
“You want me to flip your bar?”
“I want you to run it for six months. Clean it up, fix what’s broken, figure out if you want to keep it or flip it and go. I’ll handyou the keys right now, no cost—just sweat equity and time. After six months, if you want to buy it, I’ll give you a price no one else will match. If not, you walk and when I sell, you get a cut of the profit.”
It’s a business deal. Agoodone.
He leans forward, bracing his hands on the bar. “Come on, you’ve got time to kill and a million dollars burning a hole in your pocket. What else you gonna do?”
I look around the bar again, trying to see it through different eyes. The worn wooden floors that have absorbed a thousand stories. The chairs where people have shared their deepest secrets and wildest dreams.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not safe. It’s certainly not the life I planned when I was building in Portland.
But maybe that’s exactly the point.
“The town won’t like it,” I say finally. “Patty Sullivan’s daughter taking over Devil’s Bar? They’ll have plenty to say about that.”
Devil’s grin is sharp, all teeth and mischief. “Let them talk, sweetheart. You’ve got something they don’t.”
“What’s that?”
“Money. Power. And most importantly?” His eyes glitter with something that might be pride. “They’ll respect you, if you give them the chance.”
I drain my whiskey and set the glass down with a decisive clink.
It’s insane. Absolutely, completely insane. I should get in my rental car right now, drive to the nearest hotel, and spend the next six months figuring out how to invest a million dollars insomething sensible. Index funds, maybe. Real estate in a town that isn’t dying. Something safe and boring and guaranteed to increase in value.
Instead, I hear myself saying, “Alright. I’ll do it.”
Devil’s smile could power the neon signs for a week. “I knew you would.”
“Don’t make me regret this,” I warn, but I’m smiling too.
Please, God, don’t let this be a stupid mistake.
