Last Call: A Marriage of Convenience Romance eBook

We struck a deal. All business. Now he’s changing the rules.

It was just supposed to be a marriage on paper. Koa needed a path to citizenship and I needed the money to open Bridges and Bitters.

All I’ve ever wanted is to take care of my sisters and run my own bar, my way. What did I care if I had a technical husband?

So when he rolled into town after five years to deal with some paperwork, he’s turned everything upside-down.

Most people think Koa is charismatic and fun, but all I can see is someone with very few responsibilities. I don’t have time for vacations and I don’t know how to play games.

I’m not sure how I ended up hitched to a nomadic rugby coach without a plan, but I need to sort this all out. Fast.

If I can’t figure out a way to slice through all this red tape, it could mean last call for Bridges and Bitters.

Another one-night stand, another reminder that they’re not worth it.

I look over at the woman in my bed with a blissful expression on her sleeping face, but I feel nothing. 

Each time, it’s like I’m trying to scratch an itch, but the relief is so short-lived. They get off. I get off. And then I still have the same responsibilities. The same worries. The same endless to-do list.

I have to stop these one-night stands. 

I also have to get to work. We’ve got an event tonight at my bar.

I still love the sound and feel of those words even after five years: my bar. Mine. 

Has it really been that long since that day I got married, got tipsy, and had an ill-advised night in the sack with my fake husband? I try not to think about that part. Clearly, I’ve been trying to quit the one-night stands for a long time.

My phone starts to ping, telling me the do-not-disturb period has ended. I glance through the list quickly, scroll past the social texts, and quickly respond to each of my sisters’ questions. 

Baking soda is different than baking powder.

Try some cranberry juice if it’s burning, Eden.

All your birth certificates and social security cards are here at the house in a fire safe. Just tell me when you need a photocopy.

Not too taxing in the scheme of things. I stretch with a groan, trying to wake up…what’s her name even? Was it Sara? I feel like everyone is named Sara these days. 

She rolls toward me and cuddles against my side, and I realize this is going to be uncomfortable. “Hey,” I say, a few decibels beyond a whisper. “We gotta move.”

“Mmmmm,” she groans, smiling even bigger. “Too early.”

I give her a gentle shove as I back out of the bed on my side, kicking off the covers. “I’m serious. I have to work.”

She doesn’t open her eyes. “It’s Saturday…”

“Yes.” I yank the covers all the way off the bed, and she gasps, curling into a ball against the chill. “And I own a bar. Sooo….”

I drift off and cross my arms over my chest as she huffs and searches the floor for her clothes. “I thought we’d be able to get brunch.”

I sigh. “I thought I was clear that last night was…just last night.” To be honest, I’m usually surprised when the people I bring home from a bar think that we are doing anything more than getting our rocks off. I mean…we met at a bar.

A nice bar! But this was a bar hookup. It’s not like I habitually seek out my patrons for sex, but when I go home with one, I never sugarcoat anything. 

I grab a robe from the hook by the door and belt it as my guest tries to get dressed. I’m not going to be able to shower until I walk her all the way to the door. I can tell. 

And she’s probably going to want some goodbye comfort, try to give me her number. She bites her lip after tugging on the slinky tank top that caught my eye the night before. I gave her extra cherries in her Manhattan for that tank top. And then she did that trick with her tongue and the stem…

I briefly consider yanking her into the shower with me, but that would send a mixed message. 

“So, this was fun.” I smile. It was fun. I had fun. She had fun. Why is she hesitating?

She nods her head. “I just didn’t think you’d have to go back in so early. Do you want to text me when you get done with your shift today?”

I shake my head. “It’s not a shift. I own the bar. I’m there open to close. I’m sorry. I just don’t have time for anything substantial.” I pause and her lip wobbles. “I meant it when I said all that last night.”

Finally, resigned, she shrugs and walks toward the door. She waves, and I smile, closing the barrier between us gently as she backs down my front steps. At least she didn’t scream and wake my sister. I can hear Eva snoring away, and I’m glad she will get enough rest.  

* * *

I get myself ready and head in to Bridges and Bitters, smiling as I always do when I unlock the front door and slip inside. Every single thing in this bar is my idea, from the decor to the drink menu. I chose each of the stools based on the height of their foot ring because I wanted my female patrons to be able to sit comfortably.

Inspired by the women who boldly drank in public during Prohibition, I gave the whole place a Speakeasy feel and then read up on cocktails from that era. But my bar isn’t dark or tucked in a secret basement. I found a beautiful storefront on a busy street and bought the damn building.

The room smells like Pine-Sol and lemon cleanser, and I’m glad Eva made me let her close up last night so I could head on home with what’s-her-name.

Everything is in perfect order right now, and I feel a tiny release of tension I’d been holding at trusting my kid sister to wash glasses and mop the floors. It’s silly to insist on being the one to do that part of the job. 

And then I remember that the real crucial task of closing involves the cash from the till, and I rush to my office to check the safe. I sigh in pleased relief when I see the bank bag, padlocked as instructed. Okay, maybe my sister is an actual adult capable of some basic bookkeeping and space maintenance. Noted. 

It still feels too huge to let go of any control over this business. After all, it’s here because I made a pretty risky bargain. I try not to think about what would happen if I lost this place. Sure, my sisters are all older now, but what about me? What the hell would I be without my own business?

I check the mailbox outside, hating how much I hope there’s a postcard from him, but there’s nothing there. It’s been a while. I realize it’s also been a while since I sent him an email, even to complain. For years, he’s been this receptacle on the other end of the internet, someone I never have to see. Someone who doesn’t ask a single thing from me. Gradually, I started spilling my guts to him. It’s cathartic. 

* * *

I hurry through my orders for the coming week, sign for today’s deliveries at the back, and refrain from flipping off the guys renting the building next door. They’re always asking me to do things for them, and they’re always trying to throw their garbage in my containers no matter how many times I explain that I pay for garbage and recycling services, and so should they. I only do things for people I care about. I do not do things for entitled men running fake laundromats with no washing machines.

Before long, the caterers arrive with the supplies for the book launch party I’m hosting today. Knowing my preference to support women in business, my friend Samantha recommended a place nearby, and they do a great job setting up linens and centerpieces for the booths and high-tops. 

Sam, Chloe, and Piper are the core members of my friend group. It took me a really long time to admit that I have a friend group, so it’s a big deal that I think of these gals in that way. 

We call ourselves FOOF—fresh out of fucks. We meet in the back room here at Bridges and Bitters, talking about work and life and smashing the patriarchy. I love it, even if I’m usually floating in and out checking on my customers. I’m not ready to bare my soul to them, but every now and then I’ll share something cool about the bar. Like when I won a people’s choice award from the local newspaper. The wall plaque doesn’t really match my speakeasy vibe, but I hung it in the hall near the bathroom. 

We’re celebrating Chloe’s book launch today. She writes historical romance, so all the food and decor are period appropriate. 

Chloe says so, anyway. I have no freaking clue what sorts of snacks people ate in the early 1800s, but I definitely know what drinks they would serve. I came up with The Scofflaw for this party, and it’s damn good. I get started prepping it in batches, measuring out the rye whiskey, dry vermouth, lemon juice, and Grenadine before zesting some oranges into the mix. 

“ESTHERRRRRR!” Sam’s voice sings down the hall and into the event room, and I know the party is about to get lit. 

“I’m back here, Sam. You’re early.” I fling a towel over my shoulder and smile, seeing her decked out in some sort of colonial wench outfit. 

Her boyfriend, AJ, grins and hooks a thumb at Sam. “She tried to get me to wear jodhpurs. I said no.”

“You look great, AJ.” I kiss him on the cheek and pinch Sam’s behind as I edge past them in the hall. “I gotta get the drinks going!”

Sam leans over the bar and watches me as I continue making batches of today’s custom cocktail. “Esther, your knife skills are terrifying and admirable.” Sam grabs a slice of orange from me before I start popping twists on the rims of the glasses.

I give her a wink and return to work as our other friends start to trickle in. I love that my friends are enthusiastic, but it makes me nervous when they come this early to a big event. I feel like I can’t find any quiet space to go through mental checklists. Nothing to be done about it now, though.

I can handle this like I handle everything else.

I have a few staffers on weekends, and soon enough Ruthie rolls in with a smile. I relax a smidge. She steps behind the bar next to me, prepping signature drinks before the first rush of romance readers arrives. Soon, the party is in full swing. Chloe is glowing with happiness and her new audiobook narrator, Cash, is begrudgingly accepting praise from fans. 

Before long, a stranger walks up to the bar for a drink. “What can I get ya?” I don’t even look up, my hands flying as I pour another round of cocktails. 

It’s a guy this time, maybe here with a wife who loves Chloe’s books. He scratches his chin, considering, and I ignore him while I attempt to get caught up on drink orders. Eventually, he asks, “You got any absinthe?” I sigh and shake my head. This is so clearly a whiskey-centric event. 

“Come on,” he drawls, leaning forward. “I’ll pay extra.”

“We’re slammed, my dude. I’ve got all sorts of local spirits. You ever tried Maggie’s Farm rum?”

He waves a hundred-dollar bill at me, and I roll my eyes, plunking a set of glasses on a tray. “Ruth, order up.” I look at the guy and snatch the money from him. “Give me two seconds.”

I hurry to the back closet for the lone case of absinthe. I only carry it at all because we have a local distillery in the neighborhood. I mostly use them for their gin. I snatch a bottle of the green fairy and head back to the bar, gesturing at the guy. I grab a glass and a perforated spoon, plunking a sugar cube in the middle. 

Based on his surprised expression, he’s not actually a regular drinker of the elixir, and I smile smugly as I drip cold water over the sugar. I’m about to hand it to him when I hear a voice I’m not expecting. 

I look up, my hand frozen in the customer’s palm, both of us gripping the glass. I see a smiling, tanned face and dark eyes crinkled in pleasure from beneath a curly mop of even darker hair. 

“There you are, Wife.” He winks, and I drop the spoon.