Cole laughed, a sound lacking any real mirth. “I think I’d like to do that. I’m not sure I know how.” He ran his hands over his face, feeling like he’d sprinted a marathon but found himself at the same place he’d started.

Winona’s gaze was locked to him; he could feel it. He made a point of not meeting it.

“Not just the fistfights,” she said. “Maybe it’s time to stop fighting what you feel for Sierra.”

He lowered his hands and blew out a breath. “It’s not that simple. I screwed up.”

“I know you did.”

There was so much matter-of-factness in her tone that Cole finally looked at her. “Did you talk to her?”

“Didn’t need to. I saw her speed-walk by the windows the other night early in the evening, the way a girl does when she wants to get to the car before she starts bawling her eyes out.”

“She was walking fast so you assumed she was going to cry?”

Winona nodded. “And then I peeked out the door and verified it. She was parked right down there”—she pointed to the left—“and when she pulled out of the parking spot, I could see tears running down her face. A few minutes later, you stormed in here in some kind of mood.”

The knowledge that Sierra had been crying hit him like a punch in the gut. He knew he’d hurt her, but the thought of Sierra in tears… That it was because of his dumb-assery made it worse.

“Well,” she said, straightening, eyeing something over his shoulder, “it looks like you’ve been found. I trust you won’t fight with this guy.”

Cole looked behind him to see Mason approaching and clamped his jaw down. No matter how much peace he and Mason had made, he wasn’t in the mood. There was a reason Cole had escaped the family gathering, or more like nine reasons, one per happy family member.

He frowned as Mason tossed his jacket on an empty stool, then sat on the one next to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I figured I’d find you here,” Mason said. “Hello, Winona. Nice to see you.”

“You too, handsome. Can I get you a drink? Sandwich?”

Mason checked out what Cole was drinking, saw both the beer and the whiskey, and pointed at the beer glass. “Just a draft.”

She pulled out a mug, filled it, slid it across the counter. Another group had come in, and she headed out to their table to help them.

“Did Aunt Liz run out of booze or something?” Cole asked.

“No, but the pie is just about gone, and that might be worse.”

“I don’t think Winona has any pie.”

“Mom’s worried about you. You didn’t say goodbye.”

“I’ll text her,” Cole said. “She could’ve texted me.”

“She did.”