CHAPTER ONE
LINCOLN
It was barelyten thirty on a Wednesday night, and I’d already served a dozen screaming orgasms, dodged a swinging tentacle vibrator, and had a woman tell me my ass was juicy enough to start a riot.
Honestly? Not even the weirdest compliment I’d gotten today.
This was pretty much a normal evening at One Night Stan’s. The vibe at our family-owned bar was mellow, for the most part. A few regulars sat nursing their drinks. Two tables of flirty twentysomethings tried to get free shots with bad pickup lines. And Mabel, Starlight Cove’s horny, elderly menace in a bedazzled tracksuit, was waving an alien dick and loudly discussing the merits of toys that featured both clitoralandG-spot stimulation. She didn’t have to sell me that truth. I was already a believer.
Everything was completely normal. Well…everything except me.
I’d been restless for weeks. Months, even. Uneasy in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine or tequila. I was unsettled deep in my bones and frayed at the edges.
And the worst part was, I didn’t know why.
I had no idea what the hell my problem was. I was living the life I’d always wanted—running the bar how I saw fit. Well, mostly. Sleeping in and working late and flirting like it was my job because it was. Once I was done for the night, I’d head upstairs to my apartment with more numbers for women than I could reasonably entertain in a week. Not that I’d been doing much—or really any—of that. And then I’d do it all over again the next day.
But it still felt…off, somehow.
Like I was fine with what I had, but Iwantedsomething else. Something more.
More than filling in for anyone who called out. More than fixing the bar’s POS system for the third time in a month. More than being the brother everyone called for a laugh or a good time.
I just wanted something more fulfilling than being the best bartender in New England and the guy known as the unofficial emotional support himbo of Starlight Cove.
I shook off the thought and got back to work because morose bartenders didn’t get good tips. I closed out a group’s tab. Flirted with Mabel when she asked for another round for her table. Refilled someone’s gin and tonic and shot them a smile that had worked for me as long as I could remember.
And then the door opened, and I did a double take at the person standing there.
Willa Jameson. Former partner in crime, current sparring opponent, best friend’s little sister—if eight minutes counted aslittle.
She walked in like she had a vendetta against my sanity and self-control, and she had no problem challenging both. Dark hair pulled back in a messy braid with wisps framing her face, those lush curves hidden beneath a pair of faded overalls that would be my undoing, and boots that had seen some shit.Topping it all off was a faint flush on her cheeks and a pinch between her brows that meant she was tired, irritated, in pain, and trying like hell not to show any of that.
It wasn’t the first time she’d come to the bar this late. Wasn’t even the first time she’d looked like she wanted to murder everyone in her path.
But what made tonight different?
Willa was drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed.Drunk.
I clocked it immediately. She moved slower than she usually did, even on a high pain day. Like her bones were too weary to hold herself up. She usually kept those kinds of tells locked up tight. Which meant, if I could see them from across the room, she was disarmed. Off duty in a way she never allowed herself to be. Not around anyone.
Sure as hell not around me.
She didn’t stroll up to the bar. Didn’t even glance my way. She just dropped into a booth in the back and waved down Lisa, who’d once served an entire bottle of merlot in a margarita pitcher because she didn’t believe in limits.
As I grabbed a refill for someone at the bar, I narrowed my eyes on Willa, trying to get a deeper read on her. Something was definitely up. Because even with all our antagonism, she still came straight to me to order, every time. And usually delivered her order with a side offuck you.
She didn’t come to me tonight, though.
If I had to put money on why, I’d say it was because she knew I’d notice exactly what state she was in. That I’d never serve her past her limit. That I’d ask what was wrong and she’d dodge my question with a scathing response, and then I’d walk her home anyway.
So whatever the hell was going on with her wasn’t normal.
After Lisa dropped off her drink, Willa pulled an old paperback out of her tote bag, opened it, and leaned back intothe booth. Settling in like she wasn’t clearly falling apart. Like maybe no one would notice a fissure had already formed in her foundation. But I did.
I noticed everything about Willa Jameson.
In between other customers, I kept an eye on her, clocking when she started to droop a bit more, laugh a little too loud, and had trouble locating her straw.
