She leaned against the back counter, cradling her own mug, and the silence stretched between us. Not quite comfortable, but not hostile either. Just two people who didn't know what to say to each other.
I should make a joke. That's what I did. That's who I was. Conner, the funny one. The guy who never took anything seriously. The one who always had something to say.
But looking at her now—really looking, not just glancing as she rushed past—I didn't want to be that guy. I wanted to know why she was so determined to handle everything herself. Why she'd looked so tired when she thought no one was watching. Why she kept that clipboard close like it was the only thing holding her together.
"You've been managing this place since it opened, right?" I asked.
She nodded. "About eight months now."
"You like it?"
The question seemed to catch her off guard. She took a sip of coffee, considering. "I'm good at it."
"That's not what I asked."
Her eyes met mine over the rim of her mug. Something flickered there. Surprise, maybe. Like she wasn't used to people paying attention to the words she actually said.
"It's complicated," she finally answered. "I like the work. I like making sure everything runs smoothly, that people aretaken care of. But sometimes…” She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind."
"Sometimes what?"
She set her mug down on the counter behind her and crossed her arms over her chest. That guarded look was back.
"You don't actually want to hear about my job frustrations," she said. "You're just making conversation because we're stuck here."
"Maybe I'm making conversation because I want to know the answer."
"Right." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. The customer service smile. I'd seen her give it to a dozen guys who tried to flirt with her. "And I'm sure you ask all the women you meet about their complicated feelings regarding their career choices."
There it was. The wall. She thought I was running some kind of game on her, and honestly, could I blame her? She'd probably had every guy in this town try some version of it.
The problem was, I didn't know how to convince her I wasn't. Because up until about an hour ago, I probably would have been.
"Look," I said. "I know I've got a reputation for not taking things seriously. The guys give me shit about it constantly. But I'm actually asking."
She studied me for a long moment. I held her gaze, trying to look sincere without looking like I was trying to look sincere. It was harder than it should have been.
"Sometimes," she said, "I feel like people don't actually see me. They see the manager. The woman with the clipboard. The one who's always got everything under control." She paused. "Or they see the way I look and decide that's all there is."
"That must get exhausting."
"You have no idea."
The words came out quieter than I expected. More honest. And I realized, sitting there in that empty bar with the snow piling up outside, that I wanted to know everything about this woman. Not just the surface stuff. The real stuff. The things she didn't tell anyone.
That was a terrifying realization.
"For what it's worth," I said, "I don't think I've ever seen you without that clipboard before tonight. So this is kind of a new experience for me too."
She looked down at her empty hands, like she'd just remembered the clipboard wasn't there. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"It's in the kitchen," she said. "I can go get it if it makes you more comfortable."
"I think I'll survive."
This time, when our eyes met, something felt different. Lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, a tiny crack had formed in that wall she kept around herself.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
