Logan wound through the city streets, regaling her with stories from his big move. He’d been living just a few blocks over from Sara and Matty for a month while settling into his new job.
They found parking a block down from the bar, and she must have sat for a moment too long because Logan turned and rested a hand on her knee.
“Whatever happens, I need you to remember that you deserve good things, Hanna.”
“Thanks,” she whispered. She knew it was true. And not just when he, or the florist, or Sara said it.
She pulled her dress down as she stood, smoothing the emerald-green silk over her knees. Logan stood behind her and reached for her hair as she brushed it over her shoulder. She swatted his hand, but she knew he was right.
She did have a nice neck.
The bar door was propped open with a sign framed in bright orange, red, and yellow florals, dripping in sunflowers and roses. Maricela had won Sara over in Vegas, it seemed.
Logan trailed her up the stairs at the back of the empty lounge, the party in full swing on the rooftop. It was good he was behind her, pushing her forward so she couldn’t linger at the downstairs bar, thinking about the last time she'd been there.
He rested his hand on the small of her back as she stepped gingerly over the threshold of the stairs. The amber sunset washed the city in a soft glow, the overhead string lights catching the final dregs of the sun.
Frankie poured glasses of Prosecco behind a makeshift bar in the corner, his eyes lighting up when he recognized her face.
“Arizona! How are ya?”
She flinched at the moniker. For a second, she wondered if he knew she’d ruined his brother’s life over the summer, but as he flipped a rocks glass over and flicked his eyes toward hers, she could see it.
He was well aware.
She forced an apologetic smile. “I’m okay, Frankie. How have things been?”
“Great. I think this is the first time the bar’s ever been used for anything other than a bunch of fat old bastards arguing over their tabs.”
Hanna laughed, even if the sound didn’t fully translate. Logan hovered beside her, trying to look busy with his phone.
“Your dad would probably hate all the flowers, huh?”
Frankie shook his head. “Nah. Dad had a thing for flowers. What are you drinking?”
“I got her,” Milo said, appearing over his brother’s shoulder with three more bottles of wine.
Hanna swallowed, her mouth suddenly filled with sand.
She’d neglected a crucial factor in all of the rehearsals she’d run through in her head—she’d been on a tolerance break. Seeing Milo after three months of not seeing Milo hit so much harder than she’d anticipated.
Frankie scooted behind him to mix drinks for Taylor and Maricela who were desperately pretending they weren’t listening to every word.
Hanna stared at the tattoos peeking out from under Milo’s button-down, a pathetic voice in her head screaming, “Say something, you stupid bitch!”
Logan slipped toward the end of the bar, giving her space when, for once, she didn’t want it.
Milo pulled a bottle off the back of the bar and dropped some ice into a glass, inches from her as she rocked on her heels. He held up the bottle, flashing a burgundy label with two small rabbits on the side.
“Dareringer from Rabbit Hole. Takes four years just to make the barrels. They finish them with sherry before casking, super interesting flavor notes. You’ll like it.”
His hand tipped the bottle forward.
“Just a single,” she said.
Tilting the glass upward, she sipped it slowly so she could really taste the notes, and goddamn if it wasn’t one of the most unique whiskeys she’d ever had.
“Wow,” was all she could manage. The scent of his cologne mingled with the top note of the whiskey, sending her head swirling.
