Remember, we’re here if you need to talk.
I tuck away my phone after replying to tell them that everything’s fine then slap my empty glass down on the bar top triumphantly, like I’ve just won a drinking competition with myself. Usually, I’d be in the library catching up on extra reading, but drinking alone in a dive bar in Forestville seemed like a solid plan. I had to get away from SVU, and daring to venture away from my desk feels like a silent form of rebellion.
“Same again?” The bartender approaches, standing in front of the backdrop of soft neon lights, stacked liquor bottles, and glowing display boards.
The dimly lit bar is quiet, its silence only broken by the low hum of a heater. Orange lights dangle from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over everything. The cracked vinyl of the red seats is worn smooth—a testament to countless forgotten stories—and retro photos of obscure bands fill the exposed brick walls in mismatched frames. There’s an odd comfort to the faded signs and worn-in feel of the bar, a place where I can blend into the background. It’s only frequented by town locals, and a safe pick to avoid being seen by any other students. Kady Sinclair, the queen of self-control, does not do public spirals.
“A Manhattan this time.” Judging by the look on the bartender’s face when I first ordered, no one has ordered from their cocktail menu for years. The drinks cost a fraction of the price of those I get in Club Knotty. “Please.”
“Coming right up,” she turns, getting to work.
My phone has been blowing up in my pocket. After sending another quick message to the Stellas to reassure them that I’mokay, I slide it into my purse then groan, confronted by the wedding invitation again.
“Here you are, hon.” The bartender plops a bowl of seasoned curly fries down with my drink. “You look like you’re having a rough day. These are on the house.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, passing over the fries to sip my drink while she turns away to polish glasses.
I take the invitation from my purse and tear it in half violently. My father is to blame for all of this mess—the wedding, me being forced to make a deal with the Blandon Pack…
Suddenly, a deep, hearty chuckle comes from my left. “Rough day at the office, huh?” a male voice rumbles.
I hastily shove the ripped invitation into my purse. How dare this alpha have the audacity to sound so good? His voice is smooth like velvet, a melodic element to his words that rolls off his tongue effortlessly and makes me want to melt into my seat. He has the kind of voice that would make reading the dictionary sound sexy. And his smell… Damn. It’s rich, a multi-layered intensity of wild fig, fresh crushed basil leaves, blackcurrant bud, and something more earthy that I can’t quite place.
I swing my hair over my shoulder, cursing myself for letting myself get lost in his scent. “You should mind your own business.”
He doesn’t even blink, seemingly unperturbed by my comment. The bartender returns, and he pulls out his wallet, turning to me like we’re old friends.
“Another drink?”
My deadpan expression doesn’t shift. “I can pay for myself.”
I’m not dumb. Accepting a drink usually comes with added obligations, like making polite conversation, which I’ve made it perfectly clear I’m not in the mood for.
The stranger grins, making my stomach do a weird flip. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”
I arch my eyebrow, daring to look his way properly for the first time. “A Manhattan?”
Bad decision. The stranger is quite possibly the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met. He has deep brown skin with warm, hypnotic, dark eyes that draw you in, and defined locs with beads threaded through them that sit on his broad shoulders.
“Why not?” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, almost teasingly. He drops his voice. “I can assure you that having a cute umbrella in my drink doesn’t make me any less of an alpha.”
Shit. Is he flirting?
I quickly assess him. He doesn’t look like a student. I’d guess he’s in his early thirties, but he has a playful, lighthearted air about him that makes him seem younger. He gives off the vibe of a person who doesn’t take life too seriously—a quality I don’t understand.
Some people—aka. Sabs—think I’m a control freak, but I prefer to think of myself as organized. Delilah, a die-hard believer in fate who checks her horoscope daily, tells me that I need to, “Let go, and lean into the universe more”—whatever that means. I enjoy being in control too much to buy into her juju. I’m the only one who has power over my destiny, and I want it to stay that way.
The alpha and I sit in frosty silence until the bartender returns with his drink.
“See?” the stranger jokes, taking a sip. The glass looks comically small in his giant hands. “All alpha.”
“Tell them that,” I scoff and nod in the direction of a group of alphas who have just entered. Judging by the way they’re dressed, I’d guess they work in the nearby lumberyard and have just finished for the day. They snicker, the sight of an alpha drinking a cocktail not going unnoticed by them.
My new drinking companion’s laugh vibrates right through me as he tips his glass in the lumberjacks’ direction with an easy grin. My gaze is drawn to his full lips wrapping around the straw and his sharp jawline, making my thighs clench hard enough to split a watermelon. Damn him for making my body react like this.
“I don’t buy into toxic alpha-masculinity. Only insecure alphas are bothered about that.” He looks pointedly their way and smirks. “Besides, I’m sure my knot’s bigger than theirs.”
I splutter on my mouthful, spraying it everywhere in a completely unladylike—and totally un-Kady-like—manner. I’m usually unflappable, but today has completely thrown me off. His scent isn’t helping either.
