Page 121 of Made for Mayhem

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into my hair, one hand splayed over my stomach, the other stroking my arm. “Cry it out, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

I turned in his hold, burying my face in his neck, breathing in cedar and sawdust and him. His heartbeat thumped steady under my cheek, grounding me. He didn’t ask what the note said; he just held me until the sobs eased into shaky breaths.

When I finally pulled back, he wiped my tears with his thumbs, mustache brushing my forehead in a soft kiss. “Better?”

I nodded, managing a watery smile. “Get me out of here, please.”

“Absolutely.” He scooped the crumpled note from my hand and set it on my dresser. “That stays here. Today’s ours.”

He laced his fingers through mine and tugged me toward the door. I grabbed my heart-shaped sunglasses off the dresser, slipping them on to hide any lingering redness. Outside, the late morning sun glinted off his truck, Rowdy’s tail thumping on the porch as he watched us walk by. Ty opened the passenger door, boosted me in with a quick squeeze to my ass, then rounded to the driver’s side.

Engine rumbling, he reached over, palm open on the bench between us. I slid my hand into his. “Where to first, Huddy?”

“Oh, I’ve got a plan.” He squeezed once. “Just you and me.”

I leaned my head against the door, my hand out the window as I watched Linwood roll by, the weight in my chest lighter with every mile away from her house. Ty eased the truck down River Street, then pulled into a space in front of Hudson Hardware.

“Are we going to work?” I asked, eyeing the storefront.

“Nope.” He killed the engine and nodded across the street. “Just parking. We’re headed there.”

Across the street, The Lantern looked nothing like the rowdy place Ty and Emmy had described in passing. The last time I’d lived in town, it was just a honky-tonk, only open at night. A little dingy, a little country, and exactly what you’d expect from an old mining town’s saloon.

Now, the copper lettering above the door gleamed in the mountain sun. The big front windows were thrown open, letting out the scent of grilled onions and something smoky and fried. It was less “country bar” and more cozy mountain tavern, warm and lived in, waiting for the evening crowds that would turn it loud and wild.

Ty nodded toward it. “Ready?”

“For what?” I asked.

His grin was wicked and soft all at once when he opened my car door. “A redo.”

I hopped out of the truck, and his hand slid right into mine.

Ty pushed open the door to the Lantern, and instead of honky-tonk chaos, a soft hum of afternoon quiet met us. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, casting long beams across the scuffed wooden floor. The faint clatter of dishes came from the kitchen, and somewhere overhead⁠—

“What the—,” I breathed, stopping in my tracks.

Every TV in the place was playing Magnum P.I. Tom Selleck stared down at me from every angle, that little dimple popping on his cheek when he smiled.

Ty tried to keep a straight face. “Weird coincidence.”

I turned slowly, arms crossed. “You called ahead.”

He didn’t even pretend to deny it. “Come on,” he said softly, leading me to a small wooden booth along the windows. Not cracked vinyl, not Chicago—but close enough to feel like an echo.

Afternoon light washed over the table as we slid in, and the server dropped off two drinks and a basket of steaming fries.

I blinked. “You ordered these already?”

“I know your priorities,” he said, utterly unapologetic.

My lips twitched. “You make it very hard to pretend this isn’t serious.”

“Good.” His voice dipped low, warm. “I’m not here to pretend.”

The server came back to take our order, but Ty barely looked at the menu. “Two cheeseburgers. Grilled onions on both. Mayo on hers.”

“Extra mayo, please,” I added sweetly.