Demi glances over, barely interested and still lost in her phone. “Let me guess, someone lost a bet?”
“Looks like it,” I murmur, but my eyes aren’t on them anymore.
They’re on him.
Hex steps out of the office, his presence instantly shifting the air in the room. Conversations dip. A few heads turn. He doesn’t acknowledge any of it. Just moves with purpose, rolling his shoulders as he crosses the floor. There’s no rush. No urgency. Just the kind of authority that says this problem is already handled.
He reaches them just as the bearded man on the left cocks his arm back, ready to throw the first real punch.
Hex doesn’t snatch him up. Doesn’t shove between them.
Instead, he steps in close, a hand clamping down on the guy’s shoulder with a firm grip. He leans in, murmuring something too low for me to hear, but the effect is immediate. The guy exhales sharply through his nose, unclenching his fists. The other man relaxes, too, his body loosening under whatever spell Hex just worked on them.
The walk to the exit starts, one hand on each of their shoulders, steering them out with a gentleness that shocks me. There’s no aggression. No posturing. Just a quiet command that the men don’t even think to question.
The door swings shut behind them, and I realize I’ve been staring.
Who the hell is this guy?
“Damn,” Demi mutters, leaning on the table, phone now fully abandoned. “That was kind of hot.”
I shake my head to bring my focus back to my friend, trying to ignore the way my pulse is suddenly hammering against my throat. Hot. Yes. But also… interesting.
I turn back toward my drink, trying to shake the feeling when—
A flicker of blonde at the bar.
A slow, icy dread trickles down my spine, my skin prickling with awareness.
I know that hair.
My fingers tighten around my glass as cool sweat coats my bare limbs.
This isn’t random.
This isn't coincidence.
The gym rat stalker decided to step up her game. No longer watching from a distance—she’s here.
Demi suddenly stiffens. Her head jerks to the left, and before I can even brace for it, she blurts out—loud enough for the entire back of the bar to hear: “Oh. My. God. Is that Ashley?!”
I flinch. My stomach twists. I try to ignore it, but Ashley’s gaze drips across the bar, dark and crawling, a nightmare dragged out from beneath my bed.
Of course, Demi remembers her name and every detail of how she looks.
I swear, Demi has been stalking her back just as hard, but this… this is new. We’ve never crossed paths in person. Not like this.
Demi’s gaze swings back to me, eyes wide with equal parts disbelief and unhinged amusement. “Oh, this little toxiccockroach just won’t die.” She dips her head out and back toward the bar, voice lowering to a dramatic whisper. “Do you think she saw my story? She totally saw my story. What kind of unhinged commitment”—she motions wildly, gesturing between me and the blonde at the bar—“does it take to go from commenting on all your posts from burner accounts to showing up in person?”
I stare at my drink, willing it to make me disappear. “Demi—”
“No. No, this is next-level dedication, babe.” She studies Ashley, head shaking slightly, as if surprised and impressed all at once. Then, in a complete one-eighty, she slams her hand on the table. “Nope. Nope. I’ve had enough. I’m going over there.”
She’s halfway standing when I reach out and catch her wrist. “Absolutely not.”
The brief commotion has the put-together bartender snapping his distaste in Demi’s direction.
“Sable.” She gives me an incredulous look. “We cannot just sit here and let Stalker Barbie think this is okay. This is your side of town. You should be able to enjoy your life, your bar”—as if I’ve been here before today—“your birthday, without some psycho lurking in the shadows.” She waves her hand dramatically, nearly knocking over my drink.
