“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Stone says, grin spreading wide. “Finn Hall, enabler of fine drinking and finer company. Can we just clarify that this deal includes top-shelf whiskey?”
Called it.
“Sure does,” Finn says, and I laugh. Joe’s top-shelf is as low as it gets. This is beer and cider land.
Nikko raises his beer. “About time someone appreciated our work. Do you know how many spreadsheets I’ve created for this festival?”
“Spreadsheets don’t count as work,” Stone interjects, already signaling Joe for another round. “Real work involves actual sweat. Which reminds me—” He turns to Bastian with exaggerated seriousness. “Your brother here made me move fence posts. Plural. In freezing temperatures.”
“You volunteered,” Finn protests, but he’s smiling. “Multiple times, actually. Something about ‘getting authentic farm experience’ so you can feel like a local.”
Fox snorts. “He took seventeen photos of himself with the fence posts,” he offers, deadpan. “For Instagram. Winterberry’s social media scene is thriving.”
The table erupts in laughter, even Stone joining in as he pulls out his phone to prove the artistic merit of said photos.
“Seriously, though,” Finn continues once the laughter settles. “I couldn’t have done this without you guys. The sound system alone—” He gestures helplessly, words failing to capture the scope of what they’ve accomplished.
“It was nothing,” Nikko finishes firmly. “Compared to what this town’s done for us over the years.” His expression softens with something that might be nostalgia. “Every time we needed to disappear from the spotlight, Winterberry welcomed us home. No questions, no press leaks, just…acceptance. We’ll move all the fence posts in the world for that kind of peace.”
“Says he who moved exactly zero,” Stone says.
“Not my fault that I’m good at delegating.”
“More like being elsewhere when physical work is required,” Bastian says, and Nikko replies with his middle finger.
Joe keeps us fed with his legendary wings, and the drinks keep on coming. After a while, I almost stop noticing how often Bastian's eyes land on me. Almost.
“The opening ceremony is nearly ready,” Finn continues, licking barbecue sauce from his fingers. “The sound system installation starts tomorrow, weather permitting.”
“Weather better permit,” Stone grumbles, fingers tapping against his glass. “Can’t adjust acoustic balance in a snowstorm.” His technical concerns launch a discussion that should hold my attention, but Bastian’s presence across the table is way too distracting.
Our eyes meet between other people’s words, and suddenly, I feel too hot under my sweater.
“I gotta take a leak,” I announce abruptly, pushing back from the table. The guys are so engrossed in their discussion that they don’t pay attention to me leaving.
The restroom is significantly cooler than the bar. I run cold water over my hands while I debate staying and playing it cool, or leaving so I can go home and figure out a way to exist in the same space as Bastian without combusting from wanting him, from wanting to give in and believe he’s here to stay. Maybe stay with me.
The door creaks behind me, and my heart skips a beat, but it’s just another guy, barely nodding as he passes. I dry my hands and step outside the restroom, only to find myself face-to-face with Bastian Hall.
“Come with me?”
Before I can respond, his hand wraps around my wrist, and he’s pulling me toward the emergency exit. The bar’s noise fades as the heavy door swings open, and I’m slapped with the cold night air.
My back hits brick before I fully register what’s happening, the rough texture catching on my jacket. Bastian cages me in, his palms flat against the wall on either side of my head. He doesn’t touch me, but his body radiates heat just inches away, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with the single beer he’s been nursing.
“I’m having a weird sense of dejá vu,” I say, hoping my voice comes out sounding unaffected by his closeness.
“This time there's no one to interrupt,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting along my jaw. “No paparazzi, no reasons to stop.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, drawing shaky breath from my throat.
“Bastian,” I manage, but his name holds no warning, just a want that builds with every touch, every moment. His mouth covers mine before I can say more.
My body betrays me as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. The leather of his jacket feels cool under my palms, but his body burns against mine as he presses closer. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him immediately. What’s the point of pretending I don’t want this?
One of his hands cups my face while the other grips my hip, holding me against the wall like he thinks I might try to escape. But escape is the last thing on my mind as his thigh slides between my legs, creating friction that draws embarrassing sounds from my throat.
“Come home with me,” he breathes against my mouth. His lips trail kisses across my neck until his teeth find a sensitive spot below my ear, sending electricity through my system.
Want wars with fear in my chest, making it hard to think past the sensation of his body against mine. “I can’t,” I whisper, even though my hands clutch at his shoulders like I’m afraid he’ll disappear. “This is… We shouldn’t…”
