I finish pouring the drinks and bring them over, setting each one down with more care than I care to admit to.
“Thanks, Alex,” Sophia says with a big smile.
Liv gives a simple nod as a thank you.
Emma says nothing.
I linger, because I’m weak, apparently. “So… girls’ night?”
Sophia nods brightly. “Liv thought it’d be fun to drag us out of the house instead of staying in with rom-coms and tubs of ice cream, which was my initial idea.”
“That sounds way better thanthis,” Emma murmurs, eyes glued to the rim of her glass.
“Don’t let her lie to you,” Liv says. “She took forever getting ready. If she didn’t want to be here, she wouldn’t have spent twenty minutes picking what shade of lipstick to wear tonight.”
Emma blushes slightly and it hits me in the chest like a sucker punch.
I miss her so damn much.
I open my mouth to say something, but she looks up at me, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t.”
Closing my mouth once again, I take that as my sign to leave. “Enjoy your night,” I say, walking away and trying not to look back.
After occupying myself with drink orders for several other people, I make the mistake of looking over at Emma and that’s when I see three guys—loud, cocky, clearly already a few drinks in—heading toward the girls like they’re about to score the winning touchdown.
Leading them is Jake Pearson. Emma’s high school ex-boyfriend.
My blood turns to ice.
I haven’t seen him since, figuring he left town after graduation like most people did. I never thought I would see himagain, certainly not here, in my bar, with Emma in the same room.
He hasn’t changed much, still wearing the same cocky swagger and conceited smile that makes my fists itch as he walks right up to Emma and leans on the bar beside her.
They dated in high school for a couple years. I hated him. The second I met him, I knew he wasn’t what she thought he was. But Emma’s got this way of seeing the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it. Everyone, except me, of course.
I caught him at the movies with his tongue down some other girl’s throat. I could’ve ripped him apart right then, but what good would that have done? So I did the only thing I could think of. I backed him into a corner and demanded him to break up with Emma and make it look like it was my fault. I told him to blame me, say I threatened him or any other excuse he needed to use, whatever it took. And he did. He broke her heart. And she turned all that hurt and anger right onto me.
After that, I made it my personal mission to keep every guy in town away from her.
She hated me for a while, right up until the year her mom died. And I let her. She would’ve been more mad if she knew the truth. So I took the fall and played the villain in her story for years because it was better than watching her get hurt in a worse way—thinking he cheated on her because she wasn’t good enough or worthy. To this day, I don’t think she knows the truth about what really happened.
Jake's voice echoes across the bar. “Emiliana Diaz? Damn, you look good.”
I freeze, my whole body is coiled tight. My hands grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white. I strain to hear her response, praying she tells him to fuck off.
Emma doesn’t smile, but her voice is polite. “Hi, Jake.”
“You back in town for good?” he asks, clearly unaware, oruncaring, that the look on her face screams that she has no interest in entertaining him.
She nods once. “Something like that.”
His friends flank Liv and Sophia, who shoot each other amused glances.
I keep an eye on the exchange, willing myself not to move or intervene unless I have to.
Jake leans in, whispering something I can’t hear, inches away from Emma’s ear. She doesn’t react in the way I’m sure he was hoping that she would, simply an unamused look on her face. That’s when I notice when his hand lands on her upper thigh, fingers digging into her skin like he is claiming her all to himself. She looks noticeably uncomfortable now as she tries to shove his hand off, saying something with fire in her eyes. Jake doesn’t take the hint and continues to move the hand on her thigh higher, under the hem of her dress.
That’s my last fucking straw.
