When I leave the diner, I’m praying that my next stop isn’t going to be nearly as unpleasant, but part of me already knows that’s a naive hope.

Stanley Mullins was the accountant for the bar back when my parents were first able to hire one. Now it’s his son, Stan Mullins Jr., who handles the books, but he does it out of the same office his dad did for years. When I pull into the parking lot, I’m already drained from lunch with Pop.

I know that a smart woman would walk away from the bar and start over somewhere else, but I can’t. Not just because I don’t know how to let go, but because everything I have is tied up in that place.

Nearly every dollar in my savings account has been loaned to cover expenses, I live rent-free upstairs, and I haven’t taken a paycheck in long enough to make me question my own sanity.

The bottom line? If I walk away from the Fishbowl, I’ve got about three hundred dollars to my name and a stack of promissory notes that will never get paid unless I’m there to see it happen.

Stan’s receptionist takes me back to his office, rather than a conference room, and my brain is going in too many different directions to realize this may not be a good sign.

Stan rises from behind the desk and holds out a hand. “Hey, Ripley, you look as beautiful as ever.”

Being called beautiful always mystifies me because it’s such a pointless trait. I didn’t do anything to earn my thick brown hair, distinctive gray eyes, or symmetrical features, and they sure haven’t done me any good, so I always shrug it off when someone mentions my looks.

I slide my hand into Stan’s, and his grip lasts a few seconds longer than normal. That’s when anxiety sets in.

“How bad is it, Stan?”

He had a call with a few bankers this morning, one that he asked me to sit out so they could talk numbers plainly.

“You might want to have a seat.”

I plop down into a plush leather chair, trying to read the expression on his face. Nothing I see is promising.

“How bad?” I ask again.

“Bad.”

“It’s just a tiny line of credit. You can’t tell me that the building and the business aren’t enough collateral for fifty grand.”

My accountant clears his throat. “Your dad took out another mortgage on the building earlier this year.”

I blink twice as if that’s going to help me comprehend what Stan just said. “What? What mortgage? We own that building free and clear.”

Stan shakes his head. “No, you don’t. And I take it he never bothered to mention that fact to you.”

Slouching back in the chair, I lift a hand to my face and pinch the bridge of my nose. “How much?” I whisper.

“A hundred thousand.”

My mouth drops open and my hand hits my lap. “You’ve gotta be joking. What did he use it for? It sure didn’t go toward paying off his hospital bills, or any of the bar expenses. He lives in that senior community, which I pay for. What else . . .”

A thought dawns on me, one I’m afraid to give credence to by speaking it aloud.

He wouldn’t.

“You can’t think of anything else he would’ve used the money for? Booze? Gambling? Drugs?” Stan asks.

I’m not proud, but I answer, “I pay for the booze. As far as I know, he doesn’t gamble. He’s never done drugs beyond smoking the occasional joint.”

“So where would the money go?”

I reply with another question. “Has he at least been making payments on the mortgage?”

Stan’s expression turns rueful. “He was. But he stopped two months ago.”

When he asked for an extra $500 every month, and I told him I couldn’t spare it.

God, the hits keep coming.

“Is it . . . is it already in foreclosure?”

Stan shakes his head. “No, I called the lender this morning, as soon as I got off the phone with the other bankers, and I did you a favor. I told them your dad has been having some issues and has become more forgetful, and the payments never got mailed. I paid them over the phone, Ripley. You’re current now, and they’re not going to foreclose as long as you keep writing them a check every month.”

“You can’t squeeze blood from a turnip, Stan. You’ve seen the numbers. My budget can’t handle another five hundred a month.”

Stan leans back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. “I know.”

But he doesn’t know know. I doubt Stan has ever had to worry about where he could find an extra five hundred bucks, not when he slid right into Daddy’s profitable accounting firm where the vast majority of clients don’t have as much trouble paying their bills as the Fishbowl.

“What am I gonna do?”

“Look, you’ve got a few options.”

At the word options, I sit up straighter. “Like what? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve considered every damn option I could have.”

Stan nods and leans forward, resting both elbows on the desk. “Can you get more customers in the door? Is there any way you can increase receipts at all?”

“I’m trying. I wanted to start some new marketing and promo, but that takes money. And when I told Pop I was thinking about asking a few friends to come in and play so I could charge a cover, he about lost his shit.”

Stan knows all about my family’s dirty laundry, along with the fact that the most traffic I get on a weekend is the gawkers who come with their guidebooks, peek into the bathroom, and leave without buying a single drink.

But how do I keep them out if there’s a possibility they’ll even spend two dollars on a bottle of water? I’m desperate enough that I can’t.

“Look, Ripley, we’ve known each other a long time, and you know I’ve always had a thing for you, right?”

I jerk my gaze up to meet Stan’s. “What?”

“Come on, Ripley. You know that practically every guy that meets you goes home thinking about what it’d be like to have all that fire in his bed.”

The chicken pot pie I had for lunch flips in my stomach.

“Are you trying to make a point here, Stan? Because this is not helping matters.”

“All I’m saying is that if you really want my help, I’m happy to give it, and I don’t think what I want from you would be any hardship on your part.”

My mouth drops open for the second time since I stepped foot in the office, but I quickly shut it and spring to my feet.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“Come on, Rip. I’m not trying to be crude, but I did just lay out a grand this morning to save your ass, so I think that buys me a little room to speak my mind. Unless you want to work it off a different way.”

I swallow back the bile rising in my throat. Stan’s not ugly. No, with his pale blond hair and brown eyes, he’s actually attractive in a bland starched-shirt kind of way. That’s not what’s making me sick.

No, it’s the picture of his wife and two kids sitting on the credenza behind him, and his assumption that he can throw this offer at me because of who I am.

“Go fuck yourself, Stan.” Silently I add, I’m nothing like my mama.