I purse my lips so I don’t say something I’ll regret later. I don’t have to be here. I came to help him out, the way I’ve done for the past few weeks.

But I think it’s best if I just go ahead and leave for a bit. I reach for my purse, set the invoice on a box, and turn to go.

But before I walk through the door, I turn back to him. “You know, it’s kind of refreshing to know that you’re not perfect, after all.”

I let the door shut harder than needed behind me and march down the hall toward the front of the pub. Just as I pass the kitchen and glance inside, I see Fiona rubbing her shoulder.

“Are you okay, Fiona?”

“Oh, yes. This darn shoulder’s been giving me fits. I must be lifting too much around here lately. I’ll take something and be just fine.”

I nod. “Okay, well, Keegan’s in the storeroom if you need him. I’m going to head home for a bit.”

“See you later, dear.”

I may be pissed off at her son, but that’s no reason to be unkind to Fiona. She might be the nicest person on Earth.

I’d parked my little car in front of the pub, so I hop in and hurry to Maggie’s house. I still don’t consider it home, even though Maggie’s done nothing but make me feel welcome. Probably because I spend more time at Keegan’s than I do here at Maggie’s.

I cut the engine and stomp up the porch steps. When I get inside, I let my bag fall to the floor.

Maggie looks up from the book she’s reading. “Hi there.”

“Your brother is a jerk.”

She sets the book aside and smiles. “Oh, for sure. Yeah. What did he do?”

“I mean, I was not trying to be bossy. I was only pointing some stuff out to him. Because I want to help, you know?”

“You’re not making a lot of sense, but I’m with you, girl. Tell me more.”

I pace the living room because I have too much energy to sit down. “We don’t need five gallons of orange juice every week. It’s not like we have a bunch of women coming in for brunch all the time for mimosas, for God’s sake. We have people who want Guinness and whiskey, and sometimes a mixed cocktail.”

“You’re not wrong,” Maggie says.

“He’s so moody. He wouldn’t let me help him with his knuckles the other night, and today, he was kind of short with me—which is unlike him.”

“Wait.” She stands with me and holds up her hands. “You had a fight over orange juice?”

“Not just that. He also told me that I should stick to waiting tables and leave the pub ownership to him.”