Must Be Wright (The Wrights 3)

“You sure can.” Wyatt took her hand and started inside. “Let’s pack your pajamas. You’re sleeping over at my house tonight.”

3

It fucking figured Wyatt would no-show after making a big deal out of playing tonight.

Gypsy couldn’t remember the last time she was this angry. If one more person asked when Wyatt was going on stage, she was going to strangle someone. Savage Justice was playing, but word of Wyatt’s impromptu appearance here tonight had scattered around social media, the bar was bursting at the seams, and the customers were getting restless.

“Excuse me.” A pretty twenty-something pushed her way to the front of the bar. “When will Wyatt Jackson—”

“Sorry,” Gypsy told her. “I can honestly say I have no idea.”

“Pardon me, honey.” Wyatt’s voice drew Gypsy’s gaze.

The twenty-something was clearly a tourist, because she squealed like a two-year-old and asked for his autograph. Wyatt gave her an absent smile, took the girl’s pen, and signed her arm.

Gypsy glared at him while she put two glasses under the taps and pulled.

As soon as the girl went to show her friends, Wyatt turned frantically apologetic eyes on Gypsy. He had his guitar slung over his shoulder, and he looked like hell. “I am so sorry—”

“Save it.” She exchanged the beers for payment and started on three Moscow mules. “You show up late to all your gigs? Or just the ones that don’t matter to you?”

“I got held up at a party—”

“I don’t want to hear about your women problems.” She tossed ice into the brass cups and poured the liquor. “You stood on this fucking bar and professed to all my customers you were opening for Savage Justice, which was two hours ago. Didn’t you think that kind of news would get around? Do you see how busy it is? They’re all here to see you, and then you don’t show up? I’ve busted my ass to make this place amazing, which does not include bailing on a promise.”

“Mules,” she called, took payment and pointed to another customer. “You.”

“Two dirty martinis,” the guy yelled.

She reached overhead and slid two martini glasses from the rack. “The least you could have done was give me a heads-up. I can’t believe I thought you might really be a good guy.”

“I am a good guy, and this is important to me. I didn’t forget, and my problems aren’t women problems. They’re more like…princess problems.”

“I don’t even care what that means.”

“I’ll show you.” He retreated through the crowd, and Gypsy lost sight of him.

She finished the martinis and took the next order. She’d been on a hamster wheel since she’d gotten here. Make a drink, take money. Make a drink, take money. Sure, it was great for her bottom line, but there was a point at which the bottom line mattered less than sanity.

She needed a manager, like yesterday. But she couldn’t even find time to hire one.

An ear-piercing whistle cut through the noise. Savage Justice stopped playing. All the customers quieted and turned toward the main doors.

“Announcing,” Wyatt yelled above the twittering customers, “the fair princess, Belle of Franklin Briar.”

Gypsy braced both hands against the bar. “What in the hell?”

Customers parted like the Red Sea, making way for a little girl in a bright yellow floor-length dress who could only be Belle. Princess problems.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Gypsy muttered.

Her head bartender, Violet, came up beside Gypsy, her eyes wide, mouth agape. “Is that a child in your bar?”

Wyatt followed in her wake, his guilty see-my-problem expression on Gypsy.

All the customers oohed and ahhed over her and clapped as she progressed into the bar.

At the stools, Wyatt lifted Belle to a seat and yelled, “Merriment may commence.”