No Bad Days (Fisher Brothers 1)

Jesus. Just putting the words Carla and marry in the same sentence made me want to throw up.

Honestly, I never thought I’d marry anyone other than Jess. Even through all the crap of my letting her go and move away from me, I had always planned to win her back. As soon as she had that damn diploma in her hands, I intended to make her mine again.

I couldn’t have cared less if she was dating some guy or what other obstacle stood in my way when it came to getting her back in my arms. I never planned on stopping until she gave in. I’d apologize, tell her how much of an idiot I was, and fight for however long it took to win back her trust and her heart. We belonged together, and we both knew it. Living my entire life without Jess wasn’t a thought I had ever entertained.

Until now.

Now I had to accept the fact that I’d be living my whole life without her, because there’d be no winning her back after this. Even Jess had a limit, and this engagement had pushed her too far over it. Eventually she would learn the truth, that I’d done all this for her. And maybe one day she’d actually forgive me for it, or at least understand. If there was a god, I hoped like hell he’d help her.

Hopping into my truck, I headed toward Santa Monica. My brothers and their bar still served as my only place of refuge, and I wasn’t sure that would ever change. Especially now.

When I walked inside, I was thankful to see only a handful of customers. It shouldn’t have surprised me, considering that it was the middle of the day and Sam’s didn’t usually start hopping until sundown.

“Little brother,” Frank called out, greeting me as soon as I stepped inside and removed my sunglasses.

As I made my way to the bar, I briefly considered heading into the private office. Instead, I sat down on an empty bar stool at the opposite end of the bar, as far from the other patrons as possible.

“You look like shit, sweetheart,” Ryan’s voice boomed as he rounded a corner and came into view.

“Appreciate it,” I mumbled, knowing I probably looked as shitty as I felt.

“Aw, baby brother. Why so glum?” he teased, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Just in a shit mood is all.”

“You’re always in a shit mood,” Ryan said, and I wished like hell it wasn’t the truth, but it was. He turned his back to me and started mixing a drink while I watched, eyeing the ingredients carefully.

“What’s that?” I asked, pretty familiar with all the drinks they served, but I hadn’t seen this one before.

“Something new I whipped up last night. Frank thinks it tastes like piss, but the ladies who tried it last night loved it.” He grinned.

“They were so drunk, they would have told you that anything tasted good enough to be on the menu,” Fran

k grumbled.

I laughed for the first time that day, watching as he walked down to the other end of the bar to check on his customers.

Ryan shoved the rose-colored concoction toward me, and I sniffed it before bringing it to my lips and taking a slow sip. Pulling back, I shoved the glass back toward my brother.

“Girls said they liked this?”

“Be helpful or get out,” Ryan said as he pointed toward the door, clearly butt-hurt.

He was good at creating new cocktails, but his ego was easily bruised at first when it came to the feedback. He was typically defensive before he set about correcting things, making it better than any of us could have ever thought.

“First of all, it has too much lime. And whatever the juice is? God, it’s hard to swallow, like an unbalanced sweet and bitter. Needs more rum or less juice, something so it goes down easier. What is the juice? It’s so light, I can’t place it.”

“Watermelon.” Ryan grimaced before taking a sip, and I grinned. “Hell. You’re right.” He dumped it down the sink and set about remaking it.

As he worked, I tilted my head back, concentrating on the flavors that lingered. “Was that a hint of cinnamon I tasted?”

“Yeah.”

“That was brilliant. It only hit after,” I said with a smile. My brother was seriously a cocktail genius.

“Yeah, that’s the plan. I think I’ll use it as a garnish, maybe toss a cinnamon stick on top at the end.” He grinned as he measured and mixed ingredients, and my brain reeled as I tried to come up with a name for it.

Frank joined us, and automatically hand-washed and dried the glass that Ryan had just tossed into the sink before looking at me. “So, are you going to tell us what’s got you so wound up?”