Just tired. That’s all this is.
A flash of light from the bar top pulls me out of my head. It takes two more blinks to register the glow—my phone.
For heaven’s sake.
Teya’s name scrolls across the screen. I glance up at the clock, then answer with a sigh.
“Hey sis. You’re late. Let me guess—traffic?”
“Nope, not this time,” she says, exhaling dramatically. “Still at the dealership. Connecticut traffic can’t take the fall today.”
I trace the rim of my glass with one finger, keeping my tone light. “Dealership? Something wrong with your car?”
As I lift the highball for a sip—longer than necessary—I shift in my seat, trying not to make it obvious I’m… rearranging. Because apparently, a stranger’s stare is enough to spark asituationunder the bar.
“No. Nothing’s wrong,” she says, and suddenly her voice pops like confetti. “I was gonna surprise you—I bought a new car!”
She practicallyscreams, and I yank the phone away from my ear.
“A sleek SUV. Black. Super sexy. You’re gonnaloveit!”
That’s Teya—five years older, endlessly impulsive, always extra.
She’s thirty-six now. I’m thirty-one. And somehow, she still manages to feel like the older siblingandthe wild child.
She never left Connecticut. Still lives in our old house—the one our grandparents raised us in after the plane crash that killed our parents twenty-four years ago.
I was only seven at the time.
“So, unfortunately,” she adds breezily, “I’m not gonna make it into the city tonight. Raincheck?”
I lean forward, elbow resting on the bar. Disappointment curls low in my gut. I’d been looking forward to seeing her. We don’t get together nearly enough these days. Life, work, miles.
But now…
Apparently, I’ll be drinking alone.
I steal a glance over my shoulder.
Then again…
Mr. Garcia is deep in conversation with the bartender now—head tilted slightly, posture relaxed, confident without trying. He says something I can’t hear, and the bartender nods.
And yeah—I have to admit it.
He’s attractive.
Veryattractive.
The kind of attractive that makes you forget how to sit still.
He chuckles at something the bartender says, low and easy, and the sound slides through the room like warm smoke.
My eyes drop to his mouth.
Those lips.
Even in profile, they’re unreal—full, like someone pumped air into them. They’re distracting. Obscene, almost.
