I swallow.
“That was a lot,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says softly.
I panic just a little at the vulnerability and pivot.
“Never have I ever had a private tour from a bar owner.”
His eyes darken slightly.
“Well,” he says, leaning forward, voice warm and steady. “I can help you with that.”
My pulse jumps.
“Oh?”
“Oh.”
The air between us shifts again.
This doesn’t feel like a one-night Vegas fantasy anymore.
It feels like something unfolding.
And for the first time since I left Kansas, I don’t feel like I’m running.
I feel like I’m arriving.
SIX
JESSE
I don’t get nervous walking into my own bar.
I built this place. Negotiated the lease. Sanded the floors with my own hands. Picked every tap. Fought for the good jukebox instead of the cheap one.
This place is mine.
So the fact that my pulse kicks up when Mindy pushes through the door beside me feels… inconvenient.
The bar hums the way it always does on a Friday night. Not packed yet, but full enough that laughter bounces off the walls and glasses clink steadily. A local band tunes up in the corner. The scent of lime wedges and fried food drifts through the air.
Mindy slows just inside the door, taking it in.
Her eyes are bright. Curious.
Approval matters more than it should.
“Well?” I ask.
She turns to me slowly. “You didn’t tell me it was charming.”
I huff a laugh. “Charming?”
“Yeah. It feels lived in. Not flashy. Not fake.”
That hits deeper than she knows.
