Page 8 of Courageous Hearts

To some degree, I understand why Grant feels the need to father me. Of the two of us, he’s always been the more level-headed one. When we were younger, I’d be off skipping stone to stone across the creek without a care in the world, whereas Grant would be fashioning a rope out of willow branches in case I fell in. Perhaps my impulsiveness pushed him to be more protective, or maybe that’s simply how he’s hardwired. But either way, I can’t fault Grant for trying to look out for me in his own way.

I know he cares, that he means well. And ever since our actual father passed when we were nineteen, Grant has taken that role of protector a little more seriously. Most of the time, I don’t let it get to me when his caretaker instincts trip over the line from helpful to judgmental. But sometimes, I feel like Grant can’t see that I’ve grown up right alongside him.

We’re very different people, my twin and me. In fact, our identical looks are precisely where our similarities end. Don’t get me wrong; we’re close in a way I suspect comes with having shared a womb. But we’ll never be the same. Grant thrives under order and routine. He’s analytical. Clinical.

And me? Well… I follow my heart, not my head. To my brother, that makes me irresponsible. Flighty.

But I trust that complex organ beating inside my chest. It hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

When I arrive at Gertie’s, the place is brightly lit and mostly empty. The bar doesn’t open for another couple hours, but I’m meeting Missa early to go over inventory procedures before my shift starts at four. I find the woman inside her office, and when I knock on the partially open door, she gives me a smile.

Missa, every day that I’ve seen her thus far, has been dressed to the nines. Today is no exception. Her coral-colored dress sweeps elegantly past her knees, adorned in beading that runs over the loose bodice and down to the hem. Several necklaces sit layered over her chest, and her chestnut-colored hair is twisted into a fancy knot at the back of her neck.

I wouldn’t be surprised to learn Missa has an entire closet dedicated to vintage garb.

“Thanks for being early,” she says, rounding her desk and sweeping past me out into the hall. She waves for me to follow. “You did inventory at your last job, correct?”

“That’s right,” I confirm, keeping pace as Missa heads down the back hall and into the main portion of the bar. A couple performers are up on stage, stretching for rehearsals.

“Great. Should be a quick lesson, then,” she says, pulling a tablet from beneath the register and booting it up. She aims the screen my way. “We use an electronic system.”

“Oh, fantastic,” I mutter, looking over the app Missa logs into. “That’s way better than pen and paper.”

She chuckles before thrusting the tablet my way. “We may be old school here, but this is the twenty-first century. We can go through a few examples together, but I have no doubt you’ll be able to handle this on your own.”

I raise a brow, even as I’m smiling inside. “That confident I won’t screw this up, are you?”

“You know what you’re doing, kid. You’ll ask if you have questions.”

She’s right, but I appreciate the show of trust nonetheless. And because Missa doesn’t strike me as the overly serious type, I point out, “You know I’m not a kid, though, right? I’m thirty. And while I’m not about to ask your age, I’m confident you’re not old enough to be my mother.”

Missa laughs, patting my shoulder. “You’re all my kids. Now come on, let’s start with the liquor.”

Missa shows me how to enter inventory on the tablet, and as promised, she leaves me to fend for myself before long. It’s a simple enough task, and I lose myself in the monotony of it, zoning out as the background noise of chatter and soft music floats over from the stage.

Which is why, when I turn around and come face to face with a pair of startling blue eyes, I nearly drop the tablet in surprise.

“Shit,” I mutter, tucking the device against my chest and bracing a hand on the bar top as my pulse races.

“Sorry,” Blue Eyes says a little sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, not your fault,” I answer with a shaky smile, setting the tablet down.

It takes me a moment, but I realize I’m looking at the guy from last night—the one who sang Liza. Bo; that’s his name.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask.

Bo gives me a small closed-lip smile, and my eyes slide down his face. He has a piercing in his nose: a dainty, little thing. And his lips are soft and pink. Not painted red, like they were the other night.

“Yeah. Could I get a glass of water, please?” he asks.

“Oh.” I huff a laugh, shaking myself loose. “Yeah, of course.” Grabbing a clean pint glass, I fill it with water from the soda gun and slide it his way. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Bo mumbles, accepting the glass. His throat works as he swallows down the liquid.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I say, “but where are you from?”

I didn’t notice it last night while he was singing, but Bo has a slight accent. Southern, if I had to guess. I didn’t expect that.

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