The tiny spark of hope ignites, then instantly dies when Jace flicks a gaze in her direction and says, “She just turned toward the bathroom.”
“I’m going after her,” I say, my mind made up.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” West asks, but I’m already on my feet, crossing the room toward the little alcove where the bathrooms are situated. I have no idea what I’m going to say to her once I get there, I only know I have to talk to her.
It takes no time at all to cross the bar. The small hallway to the bathroom is dimly lit, the music fading to a dull thud as I round the corner, and there she is.
My heart slams in my chest at the sight of her. She’s in line behind two other girls, her weight shifted to one hip as she stares at her phone, and even in this shitty lighting, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I take a quick sweep of her appearance—tight jeans, sky-high boots with long, thin heels that make her legs go on for days, and a soft top that hugs her curves. A cascade of dark hair spills down her back like fresh ink, and when she runs her hands through it, I’m instantly jealous, because I want the privilege of being able to do that for her.”
She’s beautiful, even if she looks tired and tense, like she’ll break apart the moment she lets her guard down.
Inhaling, I move forward, hating how nervous I suddenly am.
My heart hammers in my chest, and before I can talk myself out of it, I step up behind her, my voice as soft as butter when I say, “Hey, Tate.”
She jumps at the sound, looking like a startled animal as she whirls around. On instinct, I reach a hand out, afraid she might lose her balance in those ridiculous boots, but when she doesn’t, I curl my hands into fists at my side.
Her eyes find mine, wide with surprise, before darting past me out toward the bar, and I know exactly what she’s looking for?or rather who.
“He’s not watching,” I reassure her, hating the way she flicks her gaze back to mine, uncertainty written across her features. “He’s too busy doing shots at the bar,” I add.
And flirting with the redheaded bartender with the big tits, but I keep that observation to myself because I’m desperate to see her. “And even if he weren’t, he can’t see from this angle.”
That seems to do the trick and the tension in her posture loosens. “You shouldn’t be here,” she says, her voice tight as she turns back in line.
“At Bradd’s or talking to you?” I ask, knowing damn well what she meant.
When she doesn’t answer, I clear my throat. “You look good. Your feet have to be fucking killing you, though.”
She shoots me some serious side-eye, then shakes her head, but not before I catch the slight upward curve of her lips—a ghost of the smirk I know so well. “Theyarefucking killingme,” she says, and we both laugh, some of the tension in the air between us dissolving like honey in tea, leaving behind something sweeter and softer, and much more bearable.
Then, as if catching herself with her guard down, she erases the almost-smile. “You always have known me better than I know myself.”
I tuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans, feeling suddenly shy, like I don’t know what to say to this girl who holds my heart in the palm of her hands for fear she might crush it beneath her heel. “I saw your post by the way. The viral one on TikTok.” I sigh and scrub a hand over the scruff on my jaw. “Damn, Tate. It was amazing. It broke one million views when I last checked.”
“Um, thanks,” she says, playing with her hands out in front of her, and I can’t help but notice some of the stiffness returning to her shoulders.
I cock my head, trying to read her, because her response is not what I expected. The Tate I know would be ecstatic. “How high did it go?” I ask, unable to let it go.
She shrugs, her cheeks turning a dark shade of pink as she murmurs, “I don’t know. I deleted it.”
“Youdeletedit?” I half-shout into the tiny alcove, causing the girl in line in front of her to turn our way.
“Shhhh!” Her gaze darts over my shoulder in the direction of the bar. “Would you keep it down?”
I stare at her, saying nothing, my brow furrowed in confusion until finally she sighs and says, “It was a stupid video, anyway.”
“It wasn’t stupid. Itwas—”
“Can you please just let it go?” She turns to face me, her expression earnest. And for the first time in a long time, she’s looking me in the eyes, and she’s not pushing me away or telling me to leave. So I let it drop, instead asking what I really want to know most. “How have you been?”
“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” she says, almost to herself, then: “I’ve been okay. Busy. And you?”
I miss you.
I miss you.
