I see it, the flicker in his expression. His eyes narrow just slightly, tracking her a beat longer than usual. Not in the way most guys would, but in a way I’ve come to recognize is a characteristic of both of ours. He is clocking something, filing it away in that sharp-ass mind of his.
I reach into the moment, and without missing a beat, I stop them.
JT lets out a slow whistle under his breath, rocking back on his heels. That easygoing, nothing-phases-me demeanor still firmly in place.
“Hold up,” I say, my voice low, barely a murmur against the street noise. “Both of you.”
They both stop, and I could see the surprise flint across the tall one’s face. Something shifts in her eyes—just a brief spark of shock, unprepared for the interruption.
“IDs,” I add.
The redhead steps forward first, pulling out her wallet with that same bright energy she's had since she bounced up the steps. She hands over her ID with a flirty smile, clearly thinking she can charm her way through this.
I barely glance at it—she’s obviously old enough. I hand it back without comment and turn my full attention to her friend.
That’s when I catch the hesitation in her face, the coolness under the surface. She was not expecting to be carded, but there’s a bit of excitement too that it’s happening.
She pulls out her wallet and hands it over without a word.
Sable Hawthorne.
Turning thirty-nine in nine days.
The fact that she’s almost forty and looks this fucking good catches me off guard.
I’m thirty-one. She’s got eight years on me, but I don’t give a damn.
What matters is how she moves. She’s not chasing anything. Confident. Not desperate like most women who come through here. She’s already found her spot in the world, and from the looks of it, she’s not afraid to own that.
Local address. Stillwater Bend. I recognize it instantly. Old houses, the kind with character and history. Wraparound porches you can imagine sitting on with a drink, watching the world pass by. She’s got roots here.
I hold onto her license longer than necessary, watching her fidget. She makes some nervous joke about fake IDs and aging up to forty, and I can’t help but feel that pull again.
“You’re good,” I mutter, my voice rougher than I want it to be. She takes the ID back, her fingers brushing mine in the briefest of touches, and my pulse stutters.
I can’t help but watch her, her confidence carrying her forward as she steps past me. There’s something in the way she holds herself that makes me think she’s the kind of woman who knows exactly what she wants, but might be a little afraid of the power.
Her vertically challenged friend, however, is still lit up, clearly looking for any button she can find to push. Will steps outside right on cue.
I know exactly what he is about to focus on.
Will’s a neat freak.No, scratch that.Will’s an obsessive, compulsive neat freak. Used to organize his damn toys by color, shape, and size when we were kids. Everything had its place. We were roommates briefly, and I swear he spent more time folding his clothes than I spent cleaning the entire damn house.
But that’s what makes him so damn good at his job. This place is spotless under his watch. Will’s the guy I call when things inlife spin out and get messy. He doesn’t crack under pressure. He thrives on it.
He’s going to hate that cake. He’s going to treat it as a personal affront, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t end up cleaning up the aftermath.
“Will’s not gonna like that,” I murmur and glance at JT. “I’d have let it slide.”
JT chuckles. “Yeah, well, you’ve gone soft with the patrons. I’m not testing Will’s blood pressure by making him scrape cake off the booths. Man’s already one frosting disaster away from an early retirement.”
I'm focused on the way Sable tracks the tension, reading the situation. Smart. Most people miss the undercurrents, but she's clocking everything—Will's stance, her friend's smirk, the way this is about to go sideways.
Can’t wait to watch that.
Then Red dumps the whole damn cake on the sidewalk. A mess in front of my bar.
Sable stands frozen, but I can tell it’s not about the cake anymore. It’s about what’s coming next.
