“Perfect,” Demi murmurs, tapping her screen before lifting her glass in triumph. “Posted. Tagged. We are officially on the map.”
I huff a laugh, glancing around. There is a perfect blend of history mixed with modern updates here. It’s housed in one of the old Main Street buildings, the kind that’s been standing for at least a century, but the interior is anything but dated. Dark wood, deep leather booths, a bar top that gleams under the soft glow of trendy Edison bulb light fixtures. Masculine finishes, sleek but warm. It feels… clean. Which, in a bar, is saying something.
Demi chatters beside me, something about the comments already rolling in, but my attention drifts again. My fingers curl around the edge of my glass as I search for Hex again without fully admitting that’s what I’m doing.
GQ man is indeed one of the bartenders. He simultaneously pours drinks and wipes down any droplet of condensation he comes across.
The ice clinks as I swirl the tequila, eyes fixed on the golden liquid, searching for answers that aren’t there. I don’t drink often. I hate the slow unraveling, the way my mind stops filtering thoughts before they tumble out. And more than anything, I hate the morning after. The bone-deep exhaustion, the headache that lingers too long. A greasy breakfast and a couple of Advil pillsused to cure a hangover. Now, it’s a full 24- to 48-hour recovery period, and I just don’t have the time for that.
I glance up and catch a flash of black leather.
It’s him.
Hex.
At the far end of the bar, he shrugs off his leather jacket, revealing a fitted black T-shirt that hugs broad shoulders and arms strong enough to lift the damn place off its foundation.
He’s standing with a few older guys, faces weathered like they’ve spent more years outside than in. He didn’t seem to be the kind who wastes words. His lips move in such a way I know he’s commanding the conversation.
I watch the way they look at him. Not with the casual friendliness you give to a bartender, not with the wary respect you show a bouncer who might toss you out. No, it is something else. They listen—attentive and deferential—giving subtle nods, following every word he says.
An aura of quiet confidence wraps around Hex. As if he has nothing to prove and everything under control. No laughter, not the least bit jovial, yet his posture feels easy. A man who’s rarely questioned and often obeyed.
What the hell are you, Hex?
My eyes drag over his arms, thick and corded with strength. The tattoo I saw peeking from his sleeve now visible, running up the length of his arm and leading to God knows what other muscle he has packed into that shirt.
He’s just there, fully present in every moment, and somehow that’s even more intimidating than his size.
God, his size.
He could throw a man through the window without breaking a sweat. He could probably take a hit and not even flinch—by a fucking car.
The way his fingers drum lightly against the bar top betrays restrained excitement. He doesn’t look around. No other ticks or quirks give away whatever emotion simmers beneath his stoic mask. There’s a patience in him that makes me wonder what it would take to break it.
He vanishes into the back office, the men he spoke with following close behind.
I shift in my seat, the upholstery sticking against my bare thighs as I slowly exhale, like that’ll steady the heat building low in my stomach. I shouldn’t be looking at him like this—like I want to unwrap him and taste the trouble underneath. Shouldn’t be letting thoughts like that take root.
I take another sip of my drink, feeling the warmth spread through me, and remind myself why alcohol is never a good idea.
Andrew.
I used to convince myself that I could fix things when I drank. That if I just found the right words, the right actions, I could give him another chance, make him and I work.
I know better now.
I didn’t feel sad when we ended. There were no gut-wrenching sobs, no desperate urge to win him back. What I felt was emptier than that—like standing in front of a house I’d spent years trying to renovate, only to realize the foundation was rotted the whole time.
What hurt was the failure. The quiet, exhausting truth that no matter how much I bent, tried, forgave, or held it all together with both hands and a smile, it was never enough. And it’s also the part I still struggle with—the loss of the illusion that if I just tried hard enough, I could make broken things whole.
Now, my focus is on raising Bash. Trying my best to keep things civil with Andrew. And if I end up alone for the rest of my life? I could learn to be okay with that.
I lift my glass for another sip, the low hum of the bar blurring into my thoughts right up until a sudden commotion cuts through it all, snapping me back to the present.
Two older men are squared up near the pool table, close enough in appearance to be brothers: late fifties, thick beards, biker vests, and years of hard living carved into their faces. Their argument almost looks like playful roughhousing. But then a shove turns into a near swing, and the whole energy shifts.
I set my drink down, straightening.
