She flashes a smug little smile, then consciously wipes her syrup-glossed lips with a napkin. “Told you I could. Pancakes are my thing. My son loves them, and I make them on the Saturdays I have him. But there is far more whipped cream involved.”
I shake my head, completely impressed.
Her eyes narrow playfully, and she crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t judge a girl by her looks, Hex. You’d be surprised what I can do when I set my mind to it.”
And damn, there’s that fire again.
“Alright, well, after that performance, you’ve definitely earned something a little more… active.” I grin. “I know a place we can go to work it off.”
I can’t help but beam as I watch her. She’s practically bouncing in her boots, eyes wide with curiosity as she takes in everything the outdoor market in Stillwater Bend has to offer. This place is not far from the more commercial part of town, but the kind of hidden gem locals swear by but most mimosa-sipping twats and silk-tie soldiers wouldn’t know to look for.
The smell of street food and incense greeted us, wafting through the air. Handcrafted art and quirky trinkets line various wooden tables across the line of bright color tents. It’s artsy, it’salive, and it’s exactly the kind of place I figured Sable Hawthorne would love.
Her fingers trail over hand-woven scarves, vibrant pottery, and jewelry that looks like it was shaped with love and patience. She moves through the market with that wide-eyed wonder usually reserved for kids in candy stores.
The way she talks to the vendors—polite, engaged, genuinely interested—is a refreshing change from the superficial small talk I’m used to hearing at the bar. There’s nothing fake in her voice. Just real curiosity. Honest appreciation.
The sun is high now, the heat in the air a welcome relief from the morning chill. We’ve shed our leather jackets, and they’re both draped over my arm.
I watch with a half-smile, amused by how easily she gets lost in this world of handmade things. It’s hard not to notice how different she is. The women I’ve known—even the ones I’ve taken upstairs—weren’t like this. They wanted something I don’t offer.
Call it a commitment-phobia or just knowing myself too well, but it runs deeper than that. I’m not built for the long term. Not with the life I lead. The only constant has been me, and I’ve learned to prefer keeping my adult life casual. When your business dips into the gray, there’s not room for much else.
Keep it simple.
A few drinks, some laughs, but always transactional. No promises. No expectations. Just fun and the quiet understanding that it ends when the night does. That’s it. I don’t call. They don’t either.
It’s been a long time since I even tried to get serious. Back in my early twenties, maybe. She had checked all the boxes: good girl, easy to like. But she wasn’t my type, not really. We went on a few dates, looked great on paper, but the moment she started talking about the future, I couldn’t breathe.
She didn’t do anything wrong. I did. It never stood a chance. Not with underground fights, busted knuckles, and injuries I couldn’t hide, let alone explain. I couldn’t drag her into that. The secrets were too heavy, and letting her in felt harder than pushing her away. So I did.
For a split second, I think about my mother.
Tough as hell. Kind-hearted. Dealt a hand no one deserved. She loved her boys fiercely and did what she could with what life gave her. I don’t think the right man ever came along. Not one who saw her for what she was. She moved from one bad decision to the next, and I wasn’t exactly easy on her. But I respected her strength more than I ever said out loud.
Losing her too soon… broke something in me. I never got the chance to say what I should have. Never got to make it right. And maybe that’s why I’ve kept things shallow ever since. All surface-level, clean exits, no real weight to carry.
And that’s worked for me.
Until now.
Sable is different. Not like the women I’ve known, not chasing something I can’t give. There’s this insistent pull I’ve never felt before. It’s not letting go. And I’m starting to wonder if I might actually be okay with more.
I shake off the spiraling thoughts. There’s no need to get ahead of myself. I’ve still got a lot of ground to cover, and a hell of a lot of walls to keep up until I know she’ll be ok with myextra-curricular activities. But damn, she makes me want to reconsider everything I thought I knew about myself.
Sable’s still distracted, talking to a vendor about a leather bracelet. She’s so into it that I hesitate to interrupt.
But as I glance at my watch, I’m tight on time. I’ve got something to take care of, and I need to keep this date moving without raising any alarms. I’ll give her a few more minutes toenjoy herself, then slip out, handle what needs handling, and be back before she even realizes I was gone.
No ripples. No questions.
I follow her as she moves to a nearby booth. She picks up a carved wooden spoon rest, studying it with reverence, gently turning it in her hands before deciding to buy it. The vendor—an older man with a face lined by time and long days—offers a soft, approving smile, clearly pleased she’s not just another customer looking to haggle.
And damn, I respect that.
“Nice choice,” I tell her, sliding my hands into my pockets as I lean against the booth.
She glances up, the sunlight catching her hair, giving it a golden shine. “Thanks, it just felt like it needed to be mine. You know?”
