A Toast to the Good Times Read Online Free Page B

Mila’s lips.
    I slam the glass down onto the wooden bar top and start on a refill.
    The last time I was drinking to forget, was the night I met Mila.
    It was cold as shit that night. According to all of the weather guys, we were in the icy center of one of the coldest winters Boston had dealt with in at least nine years. Which might explain why Heather felt compelled to warm herself up with Tyler while I was out looking at the bar, stupidly still excited by all the potential the place held.
    On the way back to my place, I had stopped at some cozy little bakery that Heather loved and grabbed us some hot cocoa and muffins, like a total romantic tool. I thought we could curl up in our tiny apartment, and I could tell her all about the place where I’d just plunked down every cent I had to my name in hopes that I could make it into a bar I could be proud of.
    Instead, when I walked in, I found Heather grinding and moaning on top of my Santa -hat-wearing asshole of a best friend.
    Merry Christmas to me, right?
    I dropped the stupid cocoa in the doorway and high-tailed it outta there so furious and heart-sick and betrayed, I could barely see where I was going.
    I wandered forever, not about to go back to the apartment and see if either one of those assholes was still there. And I couldn’t exactly go back to New Jersey since I’d pretty much fucked over my entire family, wound up in jail, and spent every penny I inherited on my brand new bar.
    I had nowhere to go and the weather was getting worse by the second.
    And to top it off, I stormed out of my apartment straight into the bitter cold of a Boston winter. The fucking wind was like a sucker kick to the gut.
    Jesus, the wind that night practically blew me into that shitty little bar all on its own. Not that I fought very hard against the pull and warm familiarity of my go-to comfort escape place.
    Bars always felt like home to me. They were in my blood. From the tiny gin joint that my grandfather owned, and then passed down to my dad, to the falling-down monstrosity I bought because I thought it would help me stake my claim and establish my name, I had and always would have a bone-deep connection with the tiny world that existed around a glass of liquor in the warm, dry comfort of a bar.
    Or maybe it wasn’t a bar. Maybe it was our bar, the family bar that was about to go bankrupt. Or at least, that was what was going on the last time I thought to ask about it. Before I blew a gaping hole in all my family’s financial and emotional expectations.
    Because I was supposed to save it.
    I could have saved it.
    But I didn’t.
    Instead, I bolted as soon as my inheritance check cleared the bank. I was a punk ass kid who selfishly wanted to open my own place.
    Maybe it was karma biting my ass when I found Heather and Tyler together.
    Whatever the reason, I found my way to that tiny, sad pub after I left the scene of their double betrayal and settled in for a long night of P icklebacks . What I really wanted to do was pour the whiskey straight into my brain and burn the image of the two of them right out of my grey matter. I was only on my second shot when Mila came stumbling in.
    “It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there!” She shot me a cheerful smile and pulled out the stool next to me. She collapsed onto it, letting several plastic shopping bags containing gift-wrapped packages slide off her arms. Her leather messenger bag hit the floor with a thunk and hardback books spilled out all over the place. “Do you mind if I sit here for a while? Just until the wind dies down?” Mila asked the bartender.
    “I don’t care how long you sit, as long as you’re buying drinks. And tipping.” He gave her a quick wink, but I knew he was serious. Even in near-blizzard conditions, he wasn’t going to let her take up space at his bar for free.
    “Sure. Okay. That’s not a problem.” Her dark hair pooled around her face as she dug through her purse. “Oh. Uh-oh. Um,