Page 47 of Bad Love

My throat suddenly feels thick. “Ofcourse.”

She lifts a brow, amused. "Did I ever tell you why I started Hunter’sCross?"

"Because Grandpa died and you needed anincome."

"In part. But of all the ways for a widower to make her living in those times, a brewery had to be one of the hardest.” Her eyes twinkle. “But I started it to prove it could be done. A woman didn't do those things in those days,Logan."

Her faintly lined mouth lifts at the corner, and I can’t help smilingback.

"You’re the original badass, Grams." I lift my coffee cup in atoast.

That was why, when I fucked up as a kid, I learned to hide it from her. Not because I thought I’d get in trouble, but because I only ever wanted her to see the best parts ofme.

It’s why I can’t tell her Deacon’s doing half my job, or that he’sleaving.

Since the other night at poker, it’s been eating at me. I’ve tried discreetly talking to some former classmates about the job but haven’t found someone who’d be the right fit and willing to do the work for virtually nocredit.

Of course, Monty’s prior suggestion—that I could do the job—is evencrazier.

Visions scroll through my head as a cold sweat runs down myback.

Me up to my neck inpaperwork.

On the phone, negotiating margins for trucking or whatever the fuck the logistics teamdoes.

But most of all, me driving the company my grandmother cleverly and painstakingly built into the ground with the accuracy of a homingmissile.

I can't tell her about Deacon. It would break her heart.So would the fact that I’ve risked my shares for a stupidbet.

“Do you take naps toonow?”

I clear my throat as I realize I’ve spaced out. "Sorry, Grams. Are you eating that muffin bottom? It's taunting me, and I don't take sass from bakedgoods."

10

“Which of theseis not like the other?” Rory singsongs as we head to Conservatory Water Saturday morning. He points at a duck in the pond. “That one’s a differentcolor!”

“Yes. That’s a male. The others are female.” I watch the clump of half a dozen ducks leisurely making their way through what must be coldwater.

My son stops a few inches from the edge—our rule—but cranes his neck to see better. “Why is that one pecking at the otherone?”

I watch the male pursue the female, quacking. The female smoothly turns tail, but the male doesn’t give up, snapping at herfeathers.

“He wants to befriends.”

“That’s not how you’re supposed to makefriends.”

“No,” I say dryly, “it’s not.” I ruffle hishair.

“Are there lots of ways to makefriends?”

“Sure.Why?”

“Because you said you were friends with that man. But that didn’t look likefriends.”

Oh boy. I think back to my conversation with Rory the other afternoon after Hunterleft.

“Honey, that was a friend from work,” I told him after he sat at the table next to me. I’d pulled out a different chair than the one Hunter hadoccupied.

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