Mallory sat at the bar, fingers curled around the base of her drink, watching in a mix of horror and reluctant admiration as Chase did exactly what he had always done: walked into a room and owned it.
She had thought The Hollow might shake him, just a little. That the bar’s unique brand of organized chaos—the neon lights buzzing just a touch toobright, the scent of old wood and spilled whiskey, the unpredictable crowd of regulars ranging from hipsters to bikers to maybe-sorcerers—would throw him off.
Instead, it was the opposite.
The Hollow didn’t swallow Chase whole. It elevated him.
She watched as Gus, the all-knowing bartender, took one long, scrutinizing look at Chase when he ordered bourbon and attempted to dissect him, as he did with every new face that crossed the threshold.
“Alright, stranger,” Gus said, rubbing his beard. “Let’s try this again. You ordered bourbon. So that means—strong exterior. Carries old wounds. Little broody. Probably—”
Chase took a slow sip, tilting his head with lazy amusement. “Go on.”
Gus narrowed his eyes. “Wait. No. You’re—comfortable in it. You’re not running from anything. You carry it, but you don’t let it weigh you down.”
Mallory almost choked on her drink. "Oh, shit." Gus was second-guessing himself. Gus never second-guessed himself.
Chase gave a slow, knowing grin, the kind that made it clear he was enjoying every second of the analysis. “Having a hard time with this one?”
Gus scowled. “Don’t get cocky, son. I’m recalibrating.”
But Chase just chuckled, shaking his head, and damn it, Mallory had to admit—he was stupidly attractive.
Savannah had spent months picturing a man wrecked by heartbreak, weighed down by regret, still mourning the way things had ended.
But this Chase?
This Chase was thriving.
His black button-up was fitted but effortless, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal tattoos that were both intricate and devastatingly attractive. His jeans were worn in the way only well-loved denim could be, and his boots carried the scuffs of a man who actually used them for something other than aesthetics. The ball cap was pulled low enough to add an extra layer of mystery to his already ridiculous blue eyes, catching the dim bar lighting in ways that were downright unfair.
And worst of all?
He was fun.
Earl—the local cryptid, as the regulars affectionately referred to him—had already set his sights on Chase, issuing a challenge in the form of a cryptic riddle:
"The traveler seeks, but what he finds is written in the air. Take the aim, loosethe flight, and tell me what is fair."
Mallory had barely finished rolling her eyes before Chase grinned, threw back the rest of his bourbon, and said, “Alright, Earl. Let’s do this.”
And just like that, Chase had won over The Hollow.
Earl was cackling between throws, Gus was refilling Chase’s drink like he was some kind of honored guest, and even the usual barflies had stopped mid-conversation, drawn to the effortless charisma Chase exuded.
Mallory had to admit—she was impressed.
The man was seamless. He adapted, fit himself into the unpredictable energy of the bar like he had always belonged here. Where most outsiders would have stumbled, he moved with precision.
Earl fired off another riddle mid-game.
"What is strong but bends, light yet heavy, speaks yet makes no sound?"
Without hesitation, Chase threw his dart, nailed a bullseye, and deadpanned, “A book.”
Earl howled with laughter. “A good answer! A clever man!”
Gus leaned over the counter, shaking his head. “This son of a bitch might actually belong here.”
