True to his word, Gavin learned the songs Finn had sent him. And, so far, with his beard grown in and hair pulled back in a man-bun, he hasn’t been recognized by the drunk masses.

Finn casually left several cans of green spray paint on the bar top, reminding Francie to go out and paint the double yellow stripes out front their usual festive green for the week, but something is off.

Francie seems distracted, tired, definitely not himself. In fact, this is the first year that none of the employees of McBride’s have taken the night off. Everyone is here so that Francie can rest at the corner of the bar with a pint. Normally, he makes sure to work and give one of the boys the night off, but this year, it’s Francie’s turn to have the night off.

Aidan is working the door, checking IDs. Jimmy, Finn, and Kieran are working the bar, and I’m running supplies. And keeping an eye on Francie and Gavin.

Laying my hand on his shoulder, I lean in close and ask, “You doing okay, Francie? Can I get you anything?”

His shoulder feels thinner, frailer than I’m used to, but he smiles broadly and clasps my hand in his chilly palm.

“I’m fine, love. Couldn’t be better.” He smiles, his eyes tired-looking. “He’s brilliant, your man. You’ve got things sorted out then?”

As if I could ever be surprised at this man’s concern for the happiness of those he loves.

“We do. He’s staying here, in Beekman Hills. Said he’ll figure out recording and publicity stuff. Commute to LA when he needs to. Can you believe it?” Sometimes, I still can’t make sense of his willingness to make those sacrifices to be with me.

“I can, Gracyn. He’s a lucky man to have you. Now, get back to work. The cups need replenishing, and it looks like that lass by the toilets is off her tits. You might help her to not be sick in my pub, yeah?” And, with that, he dismisses me and goes back to nursing his pint, tapping the glass to the tune Gavin’s playing.

I check on the drunk chick first, handing her a water and steering her toward some fresh air because no one wants to clean puke off the floor tonight. I can guarantee that. Then, I head back to the storage room for more plastic cups to restock the bar, calculating the cost of these cups versus the thinner ones I saw on the website, running the potential savings if we were to switch it up next year.

I make a circuit around the pub, emptying trash cans, lugging the bags through the crowd and piling them just outside the kitchen door. Gavin meets me near the back of the pub, setting his guitar safely in the office, ready to take a quick break. With a goofy grin lighting up his face, he wraps his arms around me and kisses me stupid. Kisses me breathless, imbuing it with a promise of so much more to come later.

This moment can’t possibly be ruined in any way.

“Well, isn’t that just lovely? I heard you had been released. Apparently, your career suffered heavily for your rashness. Did your band decide they didn’t want to be dragged down by you?” That voice does not fit; it is so out of context here.

“Brooks? What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.

Gavin’s muscles tense under my hands, and he takes a step to the side, turning, trying to tuck me in behind him.

“Your father was concerned about your welfare—and rightfully so if this is what you’ve stooped to. No wonder he’s so disappointed. He practically begged me to come check on you and bring you home,” he simpers.

Only Brooks would go to an Irish pub in a college town on St. Patrick’s Day in a suit, complete with a pocket square and French cuffs.

“Go to hell, Brooks.”

Gavin steps forward, chest out, shoulders back, glowering. “Gracyn is fine, dick. I’ve got her covered, so you can piss right off.”

Though he’s a couple of inches shorter than Gavin, Brooks manages to look down his nose at Gavin. He gives his pretty cuffs a quick tug and smiles condescendingly. Gavin turns to look at me. It’s sweet but absolutely a mistake.

Brooks cocks his fist and rears back in the overly crowded space. I know we’re at or just above our occupancy limit, and the last thing McBride’s needs is the cops on St. Patrick’s Day.

I duck around Gavin and go into autopilot, grabbing Brooks’ fist as he swings. Falling into my rote response, I use his momentum and push him off-balance, twisting his arm up and wrenching it behind his back. With surprise on my side, Brooks easily goes to the ground, landing with a thud. I firmly plant my knee in his back and pull up sharply on his arm, drawing an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp from him that quiets the entire pub.

I lean close to his ear, so he can hear me above the drunken calls for me to kick his ass. “You need to go, Brooks. And stay gone. If my dad’s concerned about me, he can call like a normal person, but your interference is not welcome. Do you understand?”

A grunt is the only response I get. I shift, digging my knee into his spine even further.

“You’re going to leave when I let you up, and you’re not going to come back again, right? No more.”

This time, he responds with, “Fine, okay. Just get the fuck off me, you crazy bitch.”

I could let it go at that, but I really don’t like being called a bitch, not by anyone. I twist his arm one more time and push myself up off of the asshole. Finn and all the bar boys are staring at me with their mouths open and eyes wide.

Not Gavin though. He has a proud smile stretched across his face and a knowing look in his eye.

He reaches past me, offering a hand to Brooks, which is summarily dismissed. Gavin claps his hand down on the bar and addresses Brooks, “Dude, she kicked your ass. You should be embarrassed and have to turn in your man card or some shit.”

Brooks makes a show of dusting off his trousers and straightening those damn cuffs yet again before turning and limping out the door.

I don’t have any idea what he was hoping to accomplish by coming to McBride’s, but as soon as he’s gone, I have more offers for drinks and shots than I thought possible.