Demi bounds up the steps as if she owns the place. I trail behind her, wobbling through the mental math of the age gap while questioning whether these heels are a young woman’s game or a terrible idea, period.
When I finally reach the top, Demi is waiting for me near the entrance, cake box still clutched in her arms. A younger guy—who I definitely don’t have the hots for—steps aside to let us in. He doesn’t even ask for our IDs, which is honestly a little disappointing. I wouldn’t mind the ego boost.
As we approach the doors together, just as I’m mentally preparing to slip inside behind Demi, a low, velvet rumble wraps around me.
“Hold up,” the tall one purrs, stepping slightly forward to block both our paths, each syllable rolling off his tongue. “Both of you.”
I freeze, my chest tightening as I tilt my head up to that devastating jawline. His dark eyes stare down at me, sharp, and ready to interrogate.Oh, great.
Demi and I both step back, giving him space.
“IDs,” he says, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Demi hands hers over first with a flirty smile. He glances at it briefly—she’s clearly young enough that it’s just a formality—then turns his full attention to me.
Damn it, I hoped to sneak by and pretend I’m still in my twenties. Now he’ll for sure know the truth of my age. I dig my wallet out, irritated and slightly flustered. He takes my ID and studies it, holding onto it far longer than necessary.
Only a few seconds pass, but the way he stares at the card has me convinced he’s committing it to memory. I shift on my feet, suddenly hyper-aware of my own existence, and attempt to make a joke. “No one ever asks a fake ID maker to age them up toalmost forty.”
I immediately regret it. A fart would have been less awkward.
Nothing. Not even a smile.
Okay, cool. At least he’s not trying to flirt or anything.It’s not as if I’d actually go for someone younger, even if the way that leather jacket fits him is hard to ignore.
Get it together, Sable.
He hands my ID back, his thumb brushing mine in a casual caress. His voice drops to a low, husky whisper: “You’re good.” That hard-as-nails bouncer façade doesn’t crack, but for some reason those smoldering embers in his eyes promise he’s not done with me.
Before I can overthink it, another guy steps out of the bar—so impossibly crisp, he looks like he just marched off a GQ cover. His clipped-short caramel hair is slicked back in perfect glossed waves. His shirt is pristine, tucked in just right, and there is an unmistakable air about him that makes me wonder if he irons his jeans. I’m guessing he’s a bartender, and in fact, I spot a fresh, neatly folded white towel peeking from his back pocket, ready to be pulled out and swapped for a new one at the slightest hint of a spill.
He sees Demi holding the cake I told her not to bring, and I can already tell this isn’t going to go well. His eyes narrow, his lips twist into a tight line, and the atmosphere shifts. Disdain colors his features as he stares at me like a man who’s found grime where everything should gleam.
“Absolutely no fucking cakes inside,” he says, his tone blunt. “This is a bar, not a Goddamn Chuck E. Cheese.”
I glance at Demi, her arms tighten possessively around that triple-layer red velvet cake like it’s an arsenal-grade weapon.
“Okay,Mr. Aggressive.” She’s already making her sexy, pouty face—eyebrow arched, lips sucked in just so—like she’s plotting a face-icing ambush. “You sure about that? I mean, I’ll save you a piece if you play nice.” She pops the lid up, runs a finger along the side of the icing, and brings it to her lips, sucking it into her mouth.
“No cakes. Period.” No hesitation, no smile. All business.
Demi shrugs and leans in, grinning, clearly determined to push Pretty Boy’s buttons. She inches into his personal space. He begins to lean back. “What if I feed it to you? I promise it’s not poison.”
The new guy doesn’t bite, but I watch as the first hint of a smile pulls on the tall and intimidating one's rather perfect lips.
“I don’t care how good it is. I don’t care if Duff-fucking-Goldman baked it. No cakes.”
And that’s when Demi decides she’s had enough and…tips. The. Damn. Cake. Over.
It splatters onto the sidewalk. Red velvet and frosting explode in a mess of crumbs and goo. I freeze, staring in disbelief.
“What the hell, Demi?” I can’t help but hiss, but the absurdity of the situation makes me laugh despite myself. It’s my cake, and Ididn’twant her to bring it, but now I’m disappointed. In her actions and that I won’t get to taste the glorious creation.
I don’t miss the youngest of the three guys chuckling into his hand.
But what really gets me is the bartender’s reaction. His face gives nothing away. He doesn’t speak—just stands there, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the ruined cake like it personally assaulted him. It’s the subtle twitch of his fingers, and the way his jaw tightens that make me think he’s already working out how to handle the mess. Not emotionally—literally sweeping, scrubbing, erasing.
I’m staring at the disaster, unable to tear my own eyes away, when I hear that low growl from behind me. “You’re gonna need to get a handle on her.”
