“Davis,” I say loudly. “Everything’s fine.”
Jake gets to his feet. “We got a problem, mate?”
Davis doesn’t blink, despite Jake’s pro rugby frame and the fact that he’s the size of a fucking totara tree.
“No problem,” Davis says, despite clearly squaring up. They’re eye-to-eye, and I instantly fear for my bar furniture.
“Guys! Enough! Please?”
A moment passes, and they deflate.
“Sorry, Cee,” Jake says, grabbing his beer and smiling at Davis. “There’s no issue. Just catching up with an old friend.”
Davis looks to me, and my stomach swoops. God, knowing Will Sharpe is single again must be making me a mess…
“Here.” I pass Davis a fresh can of Coke Zero and hold out the margarita. “Can you please take this to Ada?”
Davis takes the glass. Our fingers touch, and I smile, hoping to convey my appreciation at him checking up on me, but his nostrils flare, and he stalks off.
“I like him,” Jake declares. “Good dude.”
Seeing as they just met and seemed to spend most of their acquaintance telepathically measuring their dicks, I shoot him my ‘what the fuck’ look and start restocking the bar sides.
“Hey, wait,” Jake says. “Did you say Ada? As in, Ada Renaldo?”
I freeze. I would never, under pain of death, reveal Ada’s location to anyone we went to school with. I glance at her booth and find Davis depositing the margarita in front of her. I quickly look away.
“Nope!” I lie, aware that if he turns his head ninety degrees, he’ll see Ada Renaldo in the flesh. “So, how’s your Nan?”
“Good. About Ada?—”
Screw the bar prep; screw everything about this too-hot situation.
“I gotta take a break,” I tell him, sending a quick‘I need fifteen minutes’hand signal to Krissy.She gives me a thumbs up, and I whip the bar towel off my shoulder and abandon my half-cut limes. “Good to see you, Jake. I’ll catch up with you later?”
“Sure. Good to see you.” He frowns. “Think about coming to the centenary, yeah? Should be a good time.”
There are two things our high school’s centenary won’t be. One is a good time. The other is bearable sober. But it does have something going for it:Will Sharpe. Officially separated.
I sprint past the renovated bathrooms that sucked most of my nursing savings and into my office. I’ve done what I can with the rest of Afterglow, but this room still looks the same as when my godfather, Mitch, owned it. Ratty, burgundy carpet, yellowing walls and a scratched-up desk covered in paperwork. The only modern concession since I tended bar here during uni—or even from my childhood—is the laptop sitting on the spreadsheets that make my chest tighten whenever I look at them.
I plop into my chair, unbutton my too-tight jeans and tap the computer to life. I smile at the background image; Ada and I at the Viennese opera in rented ball gowns. I visited her in Europe the summer I finished my degree. With Ada’s connections, we scored cheap tickets to every event in town, filling our days with art museums and restaurants, and our nights with champagne and accented men. We’d get loaded on two-Euro shots before heading back to our hostels and waking up the next morning to jump on a train and do it all again. It was the only time I simultaneously packed glamorous cocktail dresses and a T-shirt that read ‘Virgins on Tour.’ Both were false advertising.
Vienna disappears as I open tabs for every social media account I have. It would be faster on my phone, but I want a full screen for this. I hold my breath as I type ‘Will Sharpe’ into every one of Zuckerberg’s search bars.
There.
My high school crush—fine, my ongoing crush since high school—fills the screen. Ocean blue eyes stare out at me from his profile picture. Will’s blond hair is darker and shorter, less surfer and more businessman. I scroll. The photos either show him in suits at hisdad’s car yard or in cut-off sleeves in front of waterfalls and mountain tops.
I could get into nature.I would definitely let Will Sharpe get into me in nature…
He’s working the ‘hot dad’ vibe that’s become more appealing to me in my thirties. He looks like he’d be down to push a pram on a Sunday morning run, or volunteer to coach a rippa rugby team.
I’ve never followed his socials even though they’re public. There’s a crush, and then there’s creepy, and I’ve always been a big believer in out of sight, out of mind. Which was all well and good when he was married to Jenny, because I’m firmly anti-cheating within the parameters of monogamous relationships. Nothing I ever heard about Will suggested his marriage was open, or I would have tried to smash my way through that door like the sexual Hulk.
Reaching under my desk, I open the ancient mini fridge and pull out a pouch of cranberry juice. I suck it down, hoping to counteract the yeast infection I’m risking by running a business on the unholy stress-trinity of limited sleep, financial strain, and bowls of hot chips.
I continue scrolling and Will Benjamin-Buttons before my eyes, transforming from ‘Yes, Daddy’ to roguish boy-next-door hot as I head down the rabbit hole of his feed. His posts confirm what I already knew: he went overseas after school, then came back to play rugby, never getting further than regional teams. He started working for his dad and eventually bought into the company.
