Chelsea put a bottle of light beer down in front of the newcomer.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Jarred by the familiar voice, Grant turned to find his father sitting next to him. “What’re you doing here?”

“Heard you were attempting to tie one on over here and figured I’d rather come get you here than bail your ass out of jail.”

“You’ve never had to bail my ass out of jail. That was Mac and Joe.”

Big Mac snorted and took a swig of beer. “That’s right. You were always my good boy—the smart one.”

“For all the good it’s done me.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, my life has gone to shit.”

“How so?”

“Really, Dad, do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I guess you do. Catch me up. Last I knew, you were flying high with an Oscar in one hand and the girl you loved holding the other. What happened?”

“Wish I knew.”

“If you don’t know, who does?”

“I fucked up, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m a total and complete fuck-up.” Grant grabbed his bottle, finished off the beer and signaled for Chelsea to bring him another one.

She looked to his father, who shook his head.

“Goddamn it, Dad! You can’t do that. I’m not a child!”

“Then quit acting like one.”

Grant couldn’t remember his father ever using that particular tone with him. With Mac, Adam and Evan, yes, but never with him. All at once, he was stone-cold sober, and the pain resurfaced with a relentless disregard for his desire to forget all about what he’d seen earlier—his woman with her new man. His eyes burned, and Grant knew he had to get out of there, or he was going to lose it in front of the most important person in his life.

He tossed some bills on the bar and walked out. The cool air blowing in off the ocean helped to further sober him up. Clearly, he hadn’t had anywhere near enough to drink if he was still focused on Abby’s indifference toward him earlier. After all they’d been to each other for most of their lives, how could she look at him the same way she would a stranger off the street?

A hand on his arm stopped him from staggering down the stairs from the Beachcomber’s back porch.

Grant spun around, prepared to do battle, but all the fight went out of him when he saw his father towering over him. “Let me go,” he said, attempting to wrench his arm free of his father’s grasp.

“What’s going on, son? This isn’t like you.”