A Werewolf, A Vampire, and A Fae Walk Into A Bar (Book 1 of The Last Witch Series)

He sighs. "You deserve a nice guy to settle down with."

Before I can reply, another wave of pain grips me, and I lean against the bar to catch my breath.-

Joe stands, clutching his beer as he does. "Bern, you okay?" He looks around, a panicked expression on his face. "Hey guys, Bernie's baby's coming. We got to get her help!"

"I'm fine. Relax. It's just Braxton Hicks. Totally normal."

Frank and Phil stand and drop some bills in front of them. "You sure you're okay?" Phil asks.

I nod, loading drinks on a tray to take to the newcomers.

"Alright then. Take care, Bernie. See you tomorrow," Phil says as he teeters out on slightly drunk legs.

Frank hesitates by the door, glancing at Joe then back at me. "You gonna be okay, kid?" he asks. I wince at the kid part, but he's been calling me that since I was born so it's hard to expect different. "Yeah, it's fine. I'll be closing up soon anyways. Get home safe. Say hi to Alice and the kids."

He grimaces at the thought of his family. "Will do."

When the door opens, a flurry of snow and cold air blows in. Frank and Phil leave quickly, shivering as they step outside.

I hold the tray carefully and serve the new guys, studying them as I do. None of them speaks, but their simmering glares speak volumes.

"You three look like you're having fun," I say. "Bachelor party?"

Sexy #1 raises an eyebrow. "Are you Bernadette Morgan?" he asks.NôvelDrama.Org (C) content.

It's my turn to raise an eyebrow in return. "Who's asking?"

"Hey Bern, one more drink, pretty please?" Joe asks, interrupting whatever Sexy #1 was about to say, if he was about to say anything at all. "I've only had... a couple? A few."

"Joe, you know that's not a good idea. You're drunk enough for a night like this."

I head back to the bar and start running through my closing check list when another pain grips my belly and I brace myself against the counter, taking quick breaths that sound a little too much like I'm in labor. I'm not.

I can't be.

It's too soon and I'm snowed in. There would be no way to get to a hospital tonight.

I grab my phone to Google Braxton Hicks contractions. I mean, I've read all the damn books and I know what I'll find, but I need Dr. Google to make me feel better-or convince me I'm dying of a rare disease. Either way, as long as this baby doesn't make her debut today, I'm good.

I open my browser, but it lags. Shit. No service.

Joe is sweating profusely and cursing under his breath. "You okay there, buddy?" I ask through my own gritted teeth.

He looks up, his eyes widening. "Uh, yeah. It's just. You know. You look like shit."

I grimace. "Thanks. Every woman's dream compliment."

"Oh I didn't mean that, Bernie." He tugs at his overgrown facial hair nervously, his gray bushy eyebrows dancing atop his eyes like agitated caterpillars.

As the cramps in my belly ease, I take a relieved breath and smile. "There ya go. All better. I told you, false alarm."

He scoots himself back onto the barstool in front of me and grabs the remains of the drink Frank left, downing it in one long gulp that only seasoned alcoholics can manage with such aplomb.

I crack a wry grin, raising an eyebrow. "You good now?"

He swipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm... not great in medical emergencies," he says shyly. "My wife always handled that shit... when..."

I pat his hand. "I know Joe, it's okay."

Outside the storm intensifies, the howling of the wind sending a shiver down my spine. "How long has it been now? Two years?"

He nods. "Last week marked two years since cancer stole my Betty." He sniffs, looking around for another drink.

"Did you drive here?" I ask.

"Nope. Walked."

I nod and pull out a clean tumbler. Normally on a night like tonight I'd pour two and share in the drink, but with this little one riding shotgun on my bladder, my drinking days are on pause. I pour two fingers of whiskey and scoot the glass to Joe, caving on my earlier resolution to cut him off.

"On the house," I say, pouring myself a club soda. I hold my glass up in toast. "To Betty."

Joe's eyes moisten as he raises his to clink against mine. "To Betty."

He throws back his whiskey, draining his glass before I've even brought mine to my lips. It's one of those nights, it seems, which, honestly, is a mood.

One I'm looking forward to giving into once I'm no longer an incubator to this little leech I already love more than is proper or right.

"Are you ready for motherhood?" Joe asks, leaning back as the whiskey relaxes him.

"Nope," I say, wiping down the already clean bar and throwing a glance at the Sexies to make sure they're still sexy. None of them have touched their drinks, but they are still sexy. I look back to Joe. "But is anyone ever really ready?" He shrugs. "Betty was. She was born to it."

I don't bother telling him about the

times she was in this very bar crying her heart out over a pint while bemoaning her mothering skills. I was a kid then, working the bar with my grandmother. We're a tight-knit community, so everyone turned a blind eye to my underage service. Even the cops who occasionally came by.

Betty is gone and he's all alone. Well, he's got a son Alex, but he just reminds Joe of the life that got away so they don't really talk or see each other much. So I won't disabuse him of the notion that things were effortless for his wife. But dear god in heaven can we please stop acting like this shit isn't hard?

Cuz from what I've seen and heard—and growing up in a family-owned Irish pub, I've seen and heard a lot—this shit is the hardest.