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My hands drop slightly under its weight. Whatever it is, it’s heavier than I thought it would be. I look between the gift and Blaze a couple of times.
“Go on, open it.”
I think he’s more excited than I am.
I pull the ends of the bow, the ribbon falls away, and I lift the lid.
“You shouldn’t have. You didn’t need to get me...” I begin, but my words get lost.
The lid falls back on its hinges with a quiet thud, and I am lost for words.
“Do you like it? I had it especially made for you. Put in a rush order. I wasn’t sure if you’d...”
I put my hand up to stop his rambling before looking up at him.
“Blaze, it is beautiful. Iloveit,” I say, looking back down at it.
In the box is probably the most beautiful-looking gun I’ve ever seen.
Not just any gun.
A Glock 19, my favorite type and the one I’ve been practicing with at the range. Obviously, custom-made. The frame and grip are a brilliant white, while the slide, trigger, and magazine are polished gold. Along the frame near the barrel is an engraving, but I can’t make out the words because my eyes are blurry, filled with tears that have pooled and not yet dropped.
“Blaze,” I choke out, unable to speak, let alone form a coherent sentence for a moment. “Nobody has ever given me such a thoughtful or personal gift before.”
Sure, growing up, I didn’t want or need for anything, thanks to being the only granddaughter and daughter of the late and current ruling Morellis. But this is something else. I can tell so much thought went into this gift. It’s not like he bought me a regular gun from Julius’s or one of the ones Dad sells—this is personal.
I pick up the gun out of the box and bring it closer to my face. It’s so beautiful. Blaze reaches over and wipes away the tears falling down my cheeks. I run my fingers over the engraving on the gun near the muzzle. Now that my eyes are a little clearer, I can read what it says.
Siren says...
“Is it okay? Do you like it?” He sounds nervous. After setting the gun back down into its box on the counter, I wrap my arms around his neck, taking him into an enormous hug.
“I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you,” I say into the crook of his neck.
“Only the best for my siren,” he whispers in my ear while kissing my temple.
***
Opening a business is stressful and overwhelming. I never thought it would be this bad. My mind is flying a mile a minute, running through an eternal checklist as I stack the bar with glasses.
Beyond the typical stress I assume comes with a grand opening, one of the three security guards has called up to say he can’t come in tonight. He cited some crap about conflicting schedules, which is utter bullshit because Dad was on top of security. He would have made sure anyone he booked was available. The guard also should have called sooner, not mere hours before opening.
I’m also mentally trying to find time to race home and get changed. I can’t be at the grand opening of my prestigious bar wearing leggings, a tank top, and high-top Chucks. It just screams trashy for an important event.
I race around, putting last-minute touches on the bar, making sure all the liquor is lined up, and ask the bar staff to hook up the soda guns and make sure the kegs are connected and running.
All I want is for everything to run smoothly tonight, although a heavy feeling of dread is in the pit of my stomach, and I worry that something will go wrong.
I push those thoughts aside when my only two security guys show up. I mean, I’m hoping it’s the only thing that goes wrong. The problem with having only two security guards is that theywill both be out front to cover the door, check invites, and deter any gatecrashers, and nobody is inside in case anything happens.
“I’ve got this.” Blaze grabs my wrist to hold me back from storming over to the security guys and letting loose on them. My stress and anxiety have made me unintentionally snappy this evening. He kisses the side of my head, calming me slightly before striding over to the guys and going over what is expected of them tonight, which I’m sure Dad has already done, but bless him for saving the guys from my wrath.
I align the coasters and vases on a few tables and briefly go over where the extra bottles of liquor are kept with the bar staff.
Beatrix,a pretty redhead I hired as head bartender, places her hand gently over mine. “It’s okay, hun. Take a breath. We’ve got this,you’vegot this,” she assures me.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.
