Page 1 of Hearts on the Mend

Chapter 1

Nolan

When the hell can I get out of here?

The grimy tabletop sticks to my elbows as I hunch forward in the booth. I pinch the thin paper of the Sam Adams label between my thumb and forefinger, then pull, tossing aside another piece onto the small pile to my right.

Annie told me I didn’t have to come, but my brothers, Ethan and Jack, kept riding my ass.

Across from me, Jack leans closer to his girlfriend, Izzy. “Plus, I could steal your lunch any time I want.”

She laughs, ducking her chin against the Breakers’ hockey jersey she’s wearing before she meets his eyes. “You’re relentless.”

“You love it,” he shoots back.

“Debatable,” I say in chorus with Ethan.

Annie grumbles from beside me, shooting off another quick text. When she tosses down her phone onto the table, she playfully sticks her tongue out at me and hides behind the fruity drink she ordered.

My baby sister is a menace—always has been.

Jack raps his fingers against the tabletop. “You good?”

I peek up, running my hand over my mustache.

No. I’m ready to fucking crawl out of my skin, but they don’t want to hear it, and I’m not in the mood to share.

“Yeah,” I say instead. “Just need another beer.”

I stand and clap my hand onto his shoulder as I pass by. “Be right back.”

J. Geils Band is blaring over the crackly speakers in Markey’s, the local dive bar in Merritt Point. It’s that part of winter where everyone thinks a thirty-degree day is time to bust out the beach gear. We’ve all collectively lost our fucking minds.

Not that it’s not freezing in Montana. It is. But New England has this biting, raw cold that gnaws at your bones, persistent like a hungry bulldog. We endure it all for the promise of spring and six perfect weeks of summer.

But it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving in two days.

Dan is working the bar tonight. Guy hasn’t taken a night off since he bought the place. He’s as iconic to Merritt Point as the Citgo sign is to the Boston skyline. His son was an EMT with me in high school.

“Need another, Nolan?” He drags a damp blue rag over the bartop slathered in a thick layer of varnish. The sharp smell of lemons and disinfectant hits my nostrils. The Celtics game is on behind him, and those crowded onto the barstools argue over a bad ref call.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He opens the beer and slides it over to me just as the sound of a fist connecting with flesh breaks through the bar chatter. Then a hushed quiet that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“I’ve got it,” I volunteer as a familiar rush buzzes through me, and I’m already walking toward the source of the sound by the pool tables.

Behind me, I swear I hear Mike grumble something about “Leave it to the Murphys.”

A man with a red baseball cap is clutching his jaw, his friends all laughing nervously when their eyes land on me. I’m a big, burly bastard, and I’m not afraid to use that to my advantage.

“Problem?” I ask.

The douchebag and his friends back up, which is really too fucking bad because throwing a punch sounds exactly like the start of a good night. Jack isn’t the only Murphy with a strong left hook.

A woman with dark-auburn hair whirls around, jabs her pool stick against the base of my throat, and narrows her eyes to study me. “No problem.” Then she lowers it. She examines her knuckles, then shakes out her hand. “Well, not now.”

I almost smile.