Med school, though romantic, was no longer in the cards for me. “Dylan,” the bartender—who turned out to be the owner, Max—hollered at me. “Your shift ends in ten minutes. I’ll Zelle you the money. You wanna take the rest of Faye’s shifts for the week?” “Text me the schedule. I’ll see if I have childcare.” And then I was off, a thousand dollars less poor after the tip split. The clock read 6:45 p.m., and I knew I owed Rhyland a lot of answers and an apology. I pushed the door open, about to pour myself out onto the street, when a hard body slammed into mine. My hands shot out to his chest.
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