There’s a wooden dancefloor in the middle of the room where a few couples move slowly, boots scuffing against worn boards. It looks nothing like the café that once stood here.
Gone are the flower boxes, the lemon meringue pies, the dusty bookshelves in the corner. But somehow, it still feels like it belongs. Lura would’ve loved it. I catch myself smiling at that thought until Phern elbows me and points.
“Our table’s over there,” she says, like it’s been reserved.
Which, knowing her, it probably has.
We make our way past the bar, where a few heads turn. Not many, but enough that I suddenly feel every inch of my bump and the fact that I’ve been gone for months.
I slide into the seat across from her and glance around, trying to play it cool. But my stomach’s doing flips, and my pulse won’t settle. Something’s off. Or maybe it’s just me.
The table is already set with drinks. Ginger ale in a bottle for me. Water for Phern.
“What’s going on?” I ask, voice low.
Phern just smiles and sips her water. “Nothing. You’re just home.”
I narrow my eyes. “You are way too pleased with yourself.”
“Guilty,” she sings.
But before I can press further, the jukebox clicks. The next song starts. And I freeze. Because it’s the song that was playing the first night I met Liam Stone.
Heat licks up my spine before I even spot him. But when I do… God.
There he is.
Sitting across the bar like he owns the place. One arm slung over the back of a chair, the other draped across a thick thigh,fingers tapping idly like he’s got all the time in the world. Like the universe moves to his rhythm.
His white tank clings to his chest like it’s been poured on, and those light-washed jeans… they fit him like a sin I remember too well. My brain short-circuits just looking at him.
And then he looks up.
Our eyes lock.
No smile.
Just a smirk. Slow. Crooked. Dangerous.
Like a dare soaked in whiskey and wrapped in trouble I wouldn’t mind revisiting.
My damn mouth goes dry.
He stands, unhurried, never breaking eye contact, and moves through the crowd like the air parts for him. Effortless. Confident. The kind of walk that should come with its own gravel-toned soundtrack and warning label.
By the time he stops in front of me, the room feels tilted like the floor’s forgotten how to be solid.
“Hi,” he says, voice low and smooth. “I’m Liam.”
I blink. “Olive.”
His smile isn’t polite. It’s wicked. Lethal. The kind of smile that lights a fire and walks away while it burns.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I manage, heart hammering like I’m twenty-four again.
He glances toward the jukebox and then back to me. “You know, you remind me of this girl I met in a bar once. She was crossing off a wet t-shirt contest from her college bucket list.”
