Grady was totally, 100 percent avoiding going back to the cabin as he strode into Jack’s at four that afternoon after stopping off at the supply shop to pay his account. The god-awful rendition of “Jingle Bells” playing on the jukebox reminded him he’d made a mental note not to come here until after Christmas, but desperate times required desperate measures.

He’d have a couple of light beers before heading home. Finally look at his phone with the text from Suzanne that had been burning a hole in his pocket ever since it had come in around lunchtime—he should never have given her his number. He’d seen her name pop onto his screen and promptly ignored it, not ready to face what she had to say about last night, especially when it was something he was still processing. He sure as hell hadn’t wanted to run an analysis on it via text.

But he was going to need to look at it before facing Suzanne again, and for that he needed beer.

Jack’s was—thankfully—quiet as he strode across the room. “Tucker,” he greeted as he came to a halt at the bar.

“Grady.”

“Bud Light, please.”

Tucker reached for the drink, cracked the lid off, and passed it over. Grady picked it up and swallowed half of it down in one go.

“Been that kind of day, huh?” Tucker asked when Grady finally came up for air.

Grady wiped his mouth. “Been that kind of month.” He threw some money on the bar. “Give me ten minutes and bring another one over,” he requested. Grady had absolutely no intention of sitting at the bar, inviting the kind of attention he’d garnered last time he’d been in Jack’s. He didn’t want or need anybody’s unsolicited opinions.

Tucker nodded, and Grady made his way to his usual booth that faced the door. Placing his beer and his phone on the table, he stared at both. He pressed the home button, and the notification that Suzanne’s text was waiting flashed on the screen. There was also one from Cora.

Which reminded him he needed to go and tell his aunt and uncle about the predicament Suzanne had landed him in before it got any more out of hand. He’d head there after he left Jack’s.

The phone taunted him for the next ten minutes as he sipped more slowly at his beer. By the time Tucker came over with his second drink, he’d picked it up and put it down twice.

“You get a call from the IRS?” Tucker asked as he slid into the chair—uninvited—on the other side of the booth.

Grady shook his head. “The IRS would be easier.” Reaching for the new beer, he took a swig.

“You want to talk about it?”