“Need anything else over here?”
That voice. That drawl…
I look up, and Will’s standing at the edge of our table, towel over his shoulder, one brow lifted like he owns the place, which I guess he technically does. He’s got that maddening calm about him, like nothing ever rattles him, even when it clearly does.
He doesn’t look at Trey. Just me.
And when his eyes drop to the untouched beer, then flick to where my hand rests in Trey’s, something shifts behind his expression.
“No, we’re good,” Trey says, his tone polite but clipped.
Will doesn’t move. “That drink okay?” he asks me, still only looking at me.
I nod slowly, fingers tracing the rim of the glass. “It’s strong. Not something I’d usually like.”
His gaze dips, just for a second, to the low neckline of my black shirt before it finds my eyes again. “Really? Seems to me you need strong things.”
Heat licks at my face and swirls deep in my stomach. Is he insinuating what I think he is?
Trey clears his throat. “Hey, uh, what is this, anyway? Whiskey?”
Will finally, finally looks at him.
“It’s mezcal,” he says. “Smoky. Bold. Acquired taste.”
Then his eyes cut back to me.
“I’ll check on y’all in a bit.”
And just like that, he turns and walks off—leaving silence in his wake like the echo of a slammed door.
Trey lets out a low whistle. “So… you and Will. Were you ever a thing?”
I laugh once, short and hollow. “Definitely not.”
Trey studies me for a long moment, his thumb brushing the label on his beer bottle.
“Just seemed like there was a vibe between you two.”
I shrug, trying for casual. “Small town. Long history.”
“That kind of history,” he says, “usually comes with scars or stories. Or both.”
I meet his eyes, and for a second, I think about telling him the truth. That Will isn’t just a chapter I already closed. He’s the chapter I keep rereading, even though it hurts every time.
But instead, I just smile. “You don’t strike me as someone afraid of a few stories.”
He grins, leans in. “I’m not.”
And then just like that he’s close. His knee knocks gently into mine under the table. It’s smooth, slow, clearly practiced. Trey’s a good guy. He smells nice, looks great, and he’s trying.
But when he leans in a little more, like he might kiss me I hesitate.
And that hesitation is everything. Because I’m not thinking about Trey’s lips or his hand on my shoulder.
I’m thinking about Will’s voice. And I’m wondering why he just left his post behind the bar, looking madder than shit.
I pull back with a soft smile. “Hey, do you mind if I hit the restroom real quick?”
