She broke it first. “I should get back. Ruby’s waiting.”
“She can wait.”
“I can’t.” She slid out of the booth.
Her shoulder brushed my chest as she stepped past, soft, brief, accidental only if I let myself believe it. Her scent—clean soap, nothin’ else—hit raw and honest as a punch.
I didn’t turn. Just watched her walk, no sway she didn’t mean, no tease she was aware of. Just confidence. Strength. And hell, that was more dangerous than anythin’ she could’ve done on purpose.
Back behind the bar, Gatsby smirked like he’d been takin’ notes. “That your famous Chain charm?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Didn’t look like she was buying.”
“Didn’t have to.” I grabbed the rag and kept watchin’ her across the floor. “She looked.”
Gatsby snorted. “You’re hopeless.”
“Not hopeless,” I murmured, eyes on the way she laughed at somethin’ Ruby said. “Just payin’ attention.”
Because I’d seen it, the spark right before she turned away.
And a man like me knew damn well what a spark meant, even when she fought like hell to smother it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BY THE TIMEthe last table cleared andthe lights dimmed, my legs ached and my throat felt raw from shouting orders over the music. High Voltage had its own rhythm—constant, loud, alive—and somehow I’d kept pace with it.
Ruby tossed me a towel and grinned. “Not bad for your first shift.”
“Not great either,” I said, wiping down the counter.
“Great comes later. Surviving’s what counts.”
Her laughter drifted toward the back, leaving the bar swallowed in a hush that made my skin prickle. Quiet had always meant danger where I came from. Quiet meant watching your back. Quiet meant waiting.
I grabbed my bag, ready to wait out front for Lucy, when I nearly walked straight into Chain.
He was leaning against the bar like he’d been carved into it, arms crossed, shoulders loose, a lazy grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Lucy’s not comin’,” he said. “Told her not to bother drivin’ all the way out. I’ll take you home.”
“How convenient.”
“Just practical,” he drawled. “Got two wheels and a full tank. Unless you’re scared.”
“Of you or the bike?”
He chuckled, low and rough, the sound vibrating under my skin. “Either.” He slung his jacket over one shoulder and nodded toward the door. “Come on, darlin’. You’ll like it.”
Outside, the heat had softened into something thick and heavy. Salt clung to the air. Crickets sang from the edge of the lot. His motorcycle sat under the streetlight like a shadow wrapped in chrome.
“I’ve never been on one,” I admitted.
Chain turned, eyebrows raised. “Now that’s a damn crime.”
“I never had the chance.”
