Jake
Trent walked through the rear door carrying the same canvas bag Emma had described.
Red patch.
Crooked stitching.
I’d seen that bag a hundred times.
That’s what bothered me most.
Five years.
Five years of Trent drinking at our bar, working in my bays, sitting at my table. I’d stopped seeing the details because I’d stopped thinking I needed to.
Emma hadn’t.
She stood beside me in the office doorway, arms folded.
“You don’t have to do this,” I told her quietly.
“Yes, I do.”
I looked at her.
She lifted one eyebrow. “And before you ask, I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Twenty dollars.”
Despite everything, my mouth twitched.
“You’re actually charging me now?”
“Absolutely.”
“Put it on my tab.”
Then Trent saw us.
His step faltered.
That was enough.
“Church,” I said.
His face c
