She let the title settle over her. Pictured it next to her name. Thought about how it would splatter her heartache and frustration for all to see.
Riley smiled. “I love it.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sam had invited Liam out for drinks to celebrate.
Although, for the first time in Sam’s life, Liam hadn’t been the first person he wanted to call.
But she wasn’t an option.
So Liam it was.
He’d thought about calling his mom. Not first, of course. But after he called Liam, and then the rest of the McKennas minus Riley, he’d considered calling his mother. But he’d kept picturing the bottle of ROON he’d brought her months earlier, still sitting on the shelf where he’d left it, except now with a layer of dust. She hadn’t even tried it. Hell, she hadn’t so much as touched the bottle to look at it.
The hell of it was?
Sam didn’t care. Maybe on some level there was a twinge of regret, but he didn’t care.
Because yes, it was his mother, and Riley was right. She wasn’t a mom. Not a good one anyway. He’d appreciated the leaking roof she’d put over his head, and the stale bread she’d plopped on the counter so he could make his own sandwiches, but the truth was, after he’d turned eighteen, she hadn’t done a single caring thing, out of obligation or otherwise.
So while he’d always be there if she needed anything, and he’d always call on holidays, until she showed some interest—any interest—he was done.
The closure of his relationship with his one living relative should have been painful.
Instead it was … freeing.
His phone buzzed, and Sam glanced down to see a text from Liam. If his friend was surprised by Sam’s choice of bars, it didn’t show in his be there in twenty message, but Sam could imagine Liam was probably puzzled. A swanky gastropub in Tribeca was a far cry from Sam’s usual Brooklyn dive bars.
But then, dive bars in Brooklyn didn’t have the budget or the clientele for ROON whisky.
Payton’s Place, on the other hand, had just purchased a year’s worth of his No BS blend for twice the amount Sam had been hoping to sell it for. He’d come in high, assuming negotiation on their part, but they hadn’t even batted an eye when he’d named his price.
There had been no condescending smirks. No get-real eye rolls, or lectures about respecting the integrity of the Big Names.
Instead, the owner, the general manager, and the bartender had agreed to a tasting. Sam had refused to give any sort of sales pitch, preferring to let the flavors speak for themselves.
They’d tasted.
They’d liked.
They’d bought.
In half an hour, Sam had gone from a going-nowhere loser borrowing off a dwindling 401(k) to a legitimate business owner. Granted, he still had plenty of loans to pay back, and one tiny restaurant did not a business make.
But it was a start.
For the first time in years, Sam felt the unmistakable sensation of pride settle around his shoulders. He’d done it. All on his own, he’d had a vision, acted on the vision, and seen it through.
Well, not on his own.
Without the needling of a blue-eyed, black-haired siren, he’d probably be well on his way to shutting the doors of ROON with shelves and shelves of untasted liquor.
He heard a low whistle as Liam entered the near-empty bar and took a look around. “You rob a bank? This looks like a place where money goes to disappear.” He settled at the bar next to Sam and nodded at Sam’s glass. “What are we drinking?”
Wordlessly, Sam passed the glass to his friend, who took a careful sniff and a sip.
Liam frowned. “Tastes like yours. The one from last year.”