Nathan’s still standing there when the door swings shut behind Jess, the sudden cold draft swirling around my ankles like it’s trying to hurry her betrayal along. The bar feels smaller now—quieter, warmer, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses fading into background noise. It’s just us. Me on the high-top stool, legs crossed, pink cocktail sweating in my hand. He towers over me in that dark green flannel, hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he’s debating whether bolting would be ruder than staying.
I tilt my head, letting my curls spill over one shoulder. “So. That happened.”
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Yeah.”
I pat the empty stool beside me again, more gently this time. “Sit?”
He hesitates one more second, then moves. The stool creaks under his weight as he settles, long legs stretching out, boots scuffing the worn floorboards. Up close, he smells like pine and fresh snow and something faintly spicy. My stomach does a slow, delighted flip.
“I’m Katy,” I say again, even though he already knows. “And you’re Nathan. And apparently our friends are terrible people with zero subtlety.”
“Seems that way.” His mouth quirks, just the tiniest lift at one corner. “My sister’s gonna hear about this.”
I lift my glass. “To meddling friends and sisters?”
He taps his whiskey against mine. The clink feels intimate in the low light. “And not strangling them.”
I take a sip, watching him over the rim. He’s not drinking yet. Just holding the glass, thumb rubbing the side like he’s trying to decide what comes next.
“So,” I say, setting my drink down, “you look like you’d rather be anywhere else. Which is fair. Blind setups are the worst. But since we’re both here and Jess abandoned me like a bad Tinder date… maybe we make the best of it? One drink. No pressure. If it’s awful, we can both blame our loved ones and never speak of it again.”
He finally takes a swallow.
“Not awful yet,” he says, voice low and rough.
My heart gives a happy little thud. “High praise from the man who looks like he talks to trees more than people.”
A real smile this time, small and reluctant, but there. “Trees don’t talk back.”
“Lucky you.” I lean my elbow on the bar, chin in hand. “I talk back. A lot. Warning issued.”
He studies me for a beat, eyes dark and steady under heavy brows. “I think I can handle it.”
I’m going to have to buy Jess flowers for tricking me into meeting this man.
We talk for the next hour, or rather, I talk, and he listens. Really listens. Not the fake-nodding thing guys do when they’re waiting for their turn. He leans in a fraction when I describe the graphic design client who wanted their logo to “feel like freedom but also expensive,” and when I tell him about accidentally ordering fifty pounds of glitter last year, his shoulders actually shake once in silent, startled laughter.
I want to hear the real thing.
I want to hear it a lot.
“So,” I say when there’s a lull, swirling the last of my cocktail, “why’d your sister ambush you? She thinks you’re turning into a hermit?”
“Pretty much.” He sets his glass down and slowly rotates it. “I moved up here three years ago. Left the city, my job, and everything else. I needed quiet. She thinks quiet is code for lonely.”
“Is it?”
He meets my eyes. “Sometimes.”
The honesty lands soft and heavy. I nod. “I get that. I came here six months ago for the same reason. Denver is loud. Too many people. Too many opinions. Too many exes who thought ‘you’re too much’ was a helpful thing to say on a regular basis.” I shrug. “So I packed two suitcases, my laptop, and a vague plan to ‘find myself.’ Turns out myself likes mountains and talking to blue jays who steal my granola bars.”
His mouth curves again. “Reginald?”
I gasp, delighted. “You remember!”
“You’ve mentioned him twice. Hard to forget a judgmental bird with a British name.”
I laugh, bright and surprised, and he watches me like he’s trying to memorize the sound.
