Signed Copy - The Buy-In by Emma St. Clair (with faces)

SAMPLE 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.” 

“James hasn’t seen it.” 

“Unless it’s a town somehow located within the Austin city limits, James won’t be on board. And because you did this without even asking him, he’ll say no on principle.” 

We may call the fledgling Dark Horse Brewery a family business, but it’s my oldest brother James’s baby. His idea, his award-winning brews. The rest of us are more like investors. Mostly the silent kind, since James doesn’t love input. 

He is notoriously control freaky about everything from the kinds of barrels he brews in to the farms used to source the hops. James is NOT going to be okay with Dad making a unilateral decision about location for the planned expansion. 

Especially considering the fact that wherever this town is, it’s not in Austin. First, my whole family lives here. Other than the few years Collin and I played pro football in various cities, we’ve all stuck close to home. I think losing Mom so young bonded us uniquely together. We’re not just family, but best friends. 

Second and maybe more importantly, Austin is a city filled with people ready to drop their cold, hard cash on fancy microbrews. The college kids, the foodie snobs, those busy keeping Austin weird, and even Gen X-ers still partying like it’s literally 1999—they all like beer. Especially good beer. Custom stuff with fancy names and delicately layered flavors, which, it turns out, James is a genius at developing. 

I’m honestly a little envious at how my older brothers have found ways to monetize their unique skill sets. James has Dark Horse, Collin has his gym for elite athletes (where Harper also works), and I have … I don’t even know what. My sparkling personality? My keen wit? My ability to binge several seasons of a TV show in a week?

I’m still trying to figure my life out at twenty-seven. I’ve yet to find something that holds my attention for more than a few months. Thankfully, because of a few years of pro ball salary and smart investments, I don’t need to worry about finances. But it doesn’t help scratch the itch of restlessness I’ve felt since my career ended. 

“We can get James on board,” Tank says. 

I don’t miss the we, like he already thinks I’m on Team Tank. 

“The location isn’t so far from Austin,” he continues. “The town needs a little TLC, but once we fix it up—”

“Let me stop you right there.” I hold up a hand. “The town needs TLC? Like, the whole town you bought?”

“It’s a little past its glory days,” Tank admits. “But nothing we can’t fix up. I think it will be fun.” 

“Fun is taking a family trip to Cancun or a cruise to the Bahamas. Fun is an all-you-can eat brisket buffet. Fun is poker night. Fixing up a whole town does not sound like a good time.”

Tank only grunts, crossing his arms and giving me a dark look. Shut up, Patrick, I tell myself, because I can tell that with every word coming out of my mouth, he’s only getting more stubborn about this whole thing. But restraint is not in my wheelhouse. 

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You bought a town to house the brewery, and you want us all to fix it up HGTV style?” Tank nods. “But you didn’t think to ask us first?” He nods again, and I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I knew I shouldn’t have watched all those renovation shows with you. Now they’ve got you thinking you can just up and Joanna Gaines a town.” 

“What did I say about nouns as verbs, son?”

I ignore him and pull out my phone to call in the reinforcements, aka my siblings. I’m not doing anyone any favors by running my big mouth. 

Our dad has dug in his heels, and at this point, I think it may take all of us to pull the stubborn old mule off this idea. I open the group text with Collin, James, Harper, and her husband. Chase has a way of keeping us all calm. Or, at least, calmer. Our fistfights have decreased by at least seventeen percent since Chase joined the family. 

Before I can type so much as a scared-face emoji or 9-1-1, Tank snatches the phone out of my hand. “Don’t tell your brothers. Not yet.”  

“Give me my phone, Pops.” When he slides it into the back pocket of his jeans, I groan. “This isn’t the kind of decision you make alone. Or with just me. We’re all involved here.” 

“I need you to see it first. That’s why I asked you to come over.” 

“I thought you needed help moving furniture.” 

“It was a ruse,” he says, looking far too pleased with himself. 

“Clearly.” 

“I need you, Pat.” 

Being chosen should feel like an honor. Instead, it feels a little like my dad singled out the weakest member of the herd. I hate being thought of as the easy mark. Even if it’s true. I’m less intense and serious than my siblings, but it doesn’t make me a pushover. I’m the fun one. Not a dummy, not a weak link. 

Except, maybe I am. Because already, curiosity is warring with my better judgment. I want to see the town in all its faded glory. But my brothers will murder me if I don’t tell them. Especially James. And since he’s the only one bigger than Tank, I tend to give his rage a wide berth. 

“Tank.”

“Patty.”

Forget the African plains. We’re at the OK Corral, hands on our holsters, waiting for someone to draw first. 

“You’ll understand when you see it,” Dad says. “You’re a man of vision, like me.”

“Don’t try to flatter me. It won’t work.” 

Lie. It’s already working, and based on his expression, he knows it. 

Tank comes around the island and claps a big, meaty hand on my shoulder. “Just come and see it. The magic of the idea will get in here”—he taps his slightly graying temple—“and it won’t let you go. Same as me.”

“And then I’ll help you convince the others? Is that what you think?”

“If you believe it, they’ll believe it.”

I smirk. “And if I believe it, they will come?” 

He grins, picking up on my Field of Dreams reference. Tank is my movie buddy. Many nights, I find my way over here to veg out in front of the TV. Sometimes we’re joined by my brothers or Harper and Chase. Mainly, it’s me and Tank, watching and filing away quotes for later use. 

Recently, those two nights a week have bled into more like five or six, sleeping in my childhood bedroom instead of in my latest apartment. I can’t seem to find a place that feels like home, and this newest apartment is no exception. The lease isn’t up for six months, but I’m already looking around. I’ve thought about moving back home with Tank, since I’m here so much. 

I suddenly imagine me and Tank in the same spots on his couch ten, maybe even twenty years from now. Two lonely old dudes having movie nights and wasting away. It’s a little too easy to imagine. 

Maybe we do need a project, a new dream. But still. A whole town?

“You overestimate my power of persuasion, Pops. James is the one you need to convince. He’s driving the Dark Horse train. And Collin is way too logical not to shoot a million holes in this idea. Having me agree with you won’t help.” 

If my oldest brother wins the stubborn award in addition to the control freak ribbon of excellence, Collin would take the cup in practicality and cautious decision-making. Despite an excellent business plan and the still semi-famous status attached to our family name, Collin spent years planning and worrying before he opened his gym. Years. 

“You’re underselling yourself,” Dad says. “You are the glue in this family.”

“Me?” I glance around the kitchen dramatically, as though looking for someone else Tank could mean.

“You.” 

I’m practically preening under his praise and wish my face didn’t display every one of my emotions like a Jumbotron in a stadium. Dad thinks I—Patrick, the one no one takes seriously, like, ever—am the glue? Well, shucks. 

Then he has to go and ruin it.

“I also think,” he says carefully, like a man picking his way across a room full of trip wires, “it would be good for you. Maybe provide some focus and clarity about your future. You’ve been in limbo too long, son.” 

This again. I can’t say I don’t understand his concern. I’m just tired of hearing about it, of being judged or joked about because I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. 

Sure, I have a tendency to jump from idea to idea, excitement to excitement. I get bored. I get restless. I like change. Some of that may have to do with my ADHD, which was undiagnosed until this past year, but it’s hard to say where my brain function ends and my personality begins. I’ll figure something out I love doing. One day.

Could it be this? The idea is completely ridiculous, but it also sounds like a challenge. 

With an evil grin, Tank pulls out a set of car keys, pauses for dramatic effect, then says, “I’ll let you drive the Aston Martin.”

Oh, he’s good. Real good.  

I’ve wanted to drive the Aston since the moment Tank drove it home. It was—towns aside—the biggest splurge he has ever made. He tried to tell us all about some great deal he found but no one missed the timing—he bought it the week after Harper’s wedding. She is the baby of the family, Tank’s baby, and so we all totally understood the car as his way of coping.

And how many other people have driven it these past six months? Not a one. I will be the first. 

Tank’s grin widens, like he knows he has me, which he does. In truth, it’s only partly because of the Aston. I’ll admit it—Tank sparked my curiosity about this town. There are so many questions, each of them breeding more questions like a couple of bunnies in my brain. I have to see what kind of town would inspire the Think Tank to buy it. 

And what does that even mean—to buy a town? Do you get all the businesses and buildings? Or is it more of a batteries-not-included, assemble-at-your-own-risk kind of thing? 

I chew my lip, willing my hands not to grab the keys. At least, not too quickly. I need to keep some semblance of my dignity about me. 

Who am I kidding? I have less than a fluid ounce of dignity in my entire body. I snatch the keys and dart toward the door leading to the garage, like Tank might change his mind at any second. Because he might.

I don’t know if it’s because of Tank calling me the glue and saying I’m the one with vision, or maybe just the chance to drive the Aston, but excitement has me glowing from within. I’m like the Griswolds’ lit-up house in Christmas Vacation—at least, before the fuses blow. 

I slide in, loving the way the leather molds to my body like a caress. The engine doesn’t roar to life so much as purr. I can sense her power and her need for speed. She’s just a big, beautiful jungle cat, wanting me to play with her. 

Happy to oblige. 

Tank folds his big body into the passenger seat, adjusting it for leg room. 

“Just so we understand each other, this little road trip doesn’t mean I’m on board with your hare-brained scheme, Tank. I hope you at least asked for the return policy on towns.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says, buckling his seat belt. “I don’t plan to return to sender it.”

“If you’re going to do the noun as a verb thing, there’s an art to it,” I tell him, revving the engine a little just to hear her purr. 

Tank waves a hand toward the Texas morning sun slanting over the driveway. “Come on, now. Fast and Furious this thing. But legally.”

I groan. “You’re not going to stop with this, are you?”

“Not until you realize how stupid it sounds to verb nouns.”

“Well, then, let’s road trip this thing, Pops. Where are we headed, anyway?” 

He laughs. “That’s right—I haven’t mentioned the best part about the town yet.”

“It comes with a pro football team and a whole bunch of gorgeous and single cheerleaders?”

He shoots me a dirty look. “No. The best part is the name. It’s called Sheet Cake, Texas.”

A strange sensation zips up my spine. One that leaves me uncharacteristically and uncomfortably silent. 

“You have no response to that name? I thought you’d be tossing out jokes like candy from a parade.”

Oh, I have a response: No way is a town named after cake.

But I don’t say it now. I said it five years ago, to the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. She told me she was from a town called Sheet Cake. I teasingly called her a liar, she dumped her drink on my head, and thus began the shortest, most intense, and the only real relationship in my life. 

Lindy was the One, and I totally screwed it all up.

And out of all the towns in the state of Texas, my dad unknowingly bought hers.

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