The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)
Emma St. Clair
BUY-IN:
the minimum amount of money a player must spend to enter in a poker game
Five Perks Of Small-Town Living
By Birdie Graham
New York, London, and L.A. may get a lot of well-deserved hype, but there’s something to be said about small towns. Need convincing? Here are five perks of small-town living!
You won’t be the weirdest person there. Small towns always seem to have a high concentration of strange, especially when compared to the population density. Maybe it’s the woman who walks her pet cow on a leash or the man named Wolf who shouts marriage proposals from a moving vehicle. Whatever your level of weird, you’re likely to find someone weirder in a small town.
Small-town gossip is the best. People magazine has got nothing on a tiny town’s grapevine. If someone so much as sneezes in the hardware store, you'll know about it. This also means you should watch where you sneeze …
The whole town is like family. This is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, you’ll have a lot more support when you need it. On the other, you’ll have a lot of family. Enough said.
You’ll save on gas. In a small town, you might not even need a car. Acceptable alternative methods of transportation are on foot, bicycle, or horseback.
You can always go back to the city.
Chapter One
Pat
“You bought a what?”
The question comes out of me in something like a wheeze-snort. I set my coffee mug down, gripping the spotless kitchen counter with both hands, needing the stability.
My father repeats himself slowly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I bought a town.”
That’s what I thought he said. But buying a town sounds like something I might do. I’m the one in my family who gravitates toward highly impulsive decisions—often things I regret five minutes later.
“You, the most penny-pinching, responsible man I know, purchased a town?”
His grin grows wider and even more infuriating. “A town, Patrick. As in, a small city.”
“I know what a town is. What I fail to understand is what possessed you to purchase one.”
“I was searching through listings and came upon a very unique property.”
I stare at the man who earned the nickname Think Tank on the football field for his combination of brains and brawn. The Tank part still holds up—I swear, he could still bench press me, and I’m no Thumbelina. But I’m starting to question if he may have lost some of the Think.
Tank is a rock. A practical, stubborn, no-nonsense stalwart of wise decisions. He doesn’t have an impulsive bone in his body. He is the man who managed a successful pro ball career and then raised me, my two brothers, and my sister after my mom died.
I angle my head to the side, squinting at the man now sipping coffee as though this were a perfectly normal conversation to have. Dad’s bright blue eyes still look clear and sharp. His dark hair isn’t any more threaded with gray than it was yesterday. Outwardly, he looks like my dad, not an imposter or doppelganger. I don’t believe in shape-shifters, so that’s out.
I give myself a hard pinch on the arm. Nope—this isn’t a dream.
And yet … here we are. Standing in his kitchen, discussing the fact that he PURCHASED A TOWN.
Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “Did you consult Consumer Report first?”
He rumbles out a laugh. “I did, but oddly enough, there was no section on townships.”
I wait for the punchline, for one of my brothers to jump out and shout that I’m being punked. But Tank is serious, and the smug amusement on his face tells me he’s enjoying my reaction. Maybe a little too much.
I blink. He blinks back, the corners of his mouth lifting. We are having a blink-off, and Tank is winning.
I rub my eyes, then drag a hand through my hair. “Dad, you can’t just Schitt’s Creek a town.”
“Language, son.”
I roll my eyes. Dad trained me and my siblings to steer clear of the three Ls: language, ladies, and the love of money. (For Harper, the ladies was probably replaced with something like lazy, lying, men.) Out of respect, we keep our language pretty clean, and Dad’s relentless financial training turned us all into fiscally responsible adults.
As for the ladies … well. As the old saying goes, two out of three ain’t so bad. Over the years, Collin, James, and I were locked in a three-way tie for quickest turnover in the girlfriend department. Nowadays, Collin is too much of a workaholic to date, and James is practically a hermit. As for me, I want a romantic, true love, all-in marriage like my dad and mom. But seeing how I already met the perfect woman and, in typical Pat fashion, screwed it all up, I’m basically a monk.
“Catch up to the times, old man. Schitt’s Creek is a show. You’d know that if you stopped protesting Netflix’s price increase.”
Tank grumbles, but thankfully doesn’t launch into his tirade about Netflix and price gouging. Instead, he asks, “What kind of a show is named Poop Creek?”
I choke on my laughter. “It’s got Eugene Levy in it. You love him.”
“Is he the one with the eyebrows?”
“The very one. I’ll let you Netflix it on my account.”
“You should really stop verbing nouns. I’m not giving up my boycott based on moral principles for a show named after poop. Not even for Eugene Levy. What’s it about?”
“A dad buys a town for his son as a joke, but the family ends up living there when they lose everything. Sound a little autobiographical?”
He chuckles. “Actually, yes. Considering I bought this town for my sons. Well, all of us, really. But especially you boys.”
“Christmas is months away, and even if it were closer, none of us asked for a whole town in their stocking.”
Tank shakes his head like he’s disappointed in my lack of understanding. “It’s for the brewery.”
I shake my head. “James won’t like it.”