"By making sure he knows you're not alone." I hold her gaze, willing her to believe me. "You're not alone, Steph. You've got me, Ainsley, Troy, and Archer. You've got an entire bar full of people who've got your back."
Her eyes brighten again, but this time it's different. Softer. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I do, though." She straightens in her chair, some of her usual strength returning. "You didn't have to play along out there. You didn't have to get involved."
"Yeah, I did." The words come out rougher than I mean them to, weighted with months of watching her from a distance and wishing I could close the gap between us. "Of course I did."
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition—but before she can respond, the break room door swings open and Ainsley pokes her head in.
"Everything okay back here?"
Steph nods, standing up and smoothing down her shirt. "Yeah. I'm good. Sorry for leaving you alone out there."
"Don't apologize. Just wanted to make sure you're okay." Ainsley's gaze jumps between us, reading the room with the accuracy of someone who knows both of us too well. "Drunk guy's in his cab. Archer made sure of it."
"Good," I say, rising to my feet. "I'll check in with him."
"Kevin." Steph's voice stops me at the door. When I turn back, she's looking at me with something I can't quite name in her eyes. "Seriously. Thank you."
I nod once, not trusting myself to say anything that won't give away how much tonight mattered to me. How good it felt to hear her call me her boyfriend, even if it was just an act. How much I want it to be real.
Instead, I just say, "Anytime, Steph. I mean that."
And then I walk out before I can do something stupid like tell her the truth—that I've been waiting for her to be ready, and I'd wait forever if that's what she needed.
Because Steph Walters is worth waiting for.
Even if she doesn't know it yet.
Chapter 3
Steph
I should've called in sick.
The thought hits me the moment I push through the door of The Lucky Tap on Saturday night and see Lottie Carmichael—seventy-two years old, town gossip extraordinaire, and regular customer—light up like a Christmas tree.
"There she is!" Lottie practically shouts across the bar. "I can't believe how well you both hid it!"
Oh no.
My stomach drops straight through the floor as every head in the bar turns toward me. And there are a lot of heads. Saturday nights are always busy, but tonight it looks like half the town decided to show up.
I freeze in the doorway, my work bag clutched against my chest like a shield.
"Congratulations, honey!" Lottie continues, oblivious to my rising panic. "We're all so happy for you and Kevin. It's about damn time!"
About damn time?
Heat floods my face as a chorus of agreement rises from the crowd. People I barely know are grinning at me, raising their glasses, calling out congratulations like I just announced an engagement instead of blurting out a desperate lie to get a drunk guy to leave me alone.
"Lottie, I—" I start, but she's already barreling toward me, surprisingly fast for someone who uses a cane.
"Don't you dare be modest," she says, patting my arm with genuine affection. "Everyone in this town has been waiting for you two to figure it out. The way that boy looks at you? Lord, it's been painful to watch."
The way he—what?
