You don’t belong here.
Leaning into the fear is what I’ve always done. It tempts me with practicality. It dangles promises of trying again another day. It’s reasonable and safe … and exactly what I always do.
Until now.
“It’s going to be great,” I whisper. “Just walk inside and order a drink.”
My hand grips the cold metal handle, lugging it toward me. The music grows louder, mixed with laughter and revelry, and the tangy scent of old beer, cheap citrus cleaner, and overused cooking oil.
A few heads turn from the bar as I walk inside the dimly lit establishment. The man at the end nods, nearly falling off the barstool in the process. The man beside him barely acknowledges me before turning back to the basketball game playing on a television in the corner. But the woman beside him, probably my age, with a kind face and a pretty turquoise camisole, smiles.
Mine is shakier than hers, but I return it.
“Excuse us,” someone says behind me. I jump, stepping aside to let a couple enter the bar. The man who nearly fell off his stool lifts his brows, and I realize I’m only attracting more attention by standing in the entrance like a bump on a log.
With my license and credit card tucked safely in my pocket, I meander through the bodies clogging the only thoroughfare through the building. I’m not sure where to go or why I thought this was a good idea, but I’m here and committed … for at least ten minutes. I can do almost anything for ten minutes.
A woman hops off her stool, leaving an open spot at the bar. I slide up to it before I lose my courage and wait for the bartenderto spot me. Her smile is bright, and her eyes shine as she barks at someone to wait their turn and comes to me.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says, leaning against the bar top. “You doing okay?”
“Is it that obvious?”
She laughs. “What can I get for you?”
Gianna always orders sangria, but that seems out of place for Patsy’s. The only other thing that comes to mind is Astrid saying that beer is the drink of Sugar Creek and Gianna giving her crap about it.
“Can I get a beer?” I ask.
Her head tilts to the side. “Have you done this before?”
“I mean, kind of.” I wince. “No, not really.”
She smiles, nodding. “Not a problem. I’m Terri, and I’ll take care of you. Wait right here.”
Thank God. My breath wobbles, and I ignore the thin layer of sweat coating the back of my neck and palms. Terri returns, handing me a brown bottle with a white label.
“How much?” I ask, reaching for my card.
“That one’s on the house.” She winks at me. “If you need anything at all tonight, find me. And try to have some fun.” Her attention lifts above my head before she begins to chuckle. “But I think you already have that taken care of.”
Huh?
My brows pull together in confusion, but before I can ask a question, she’s already helping someone else. I bite my lip, ready to turn around and find a corner to hide in for the next eight minutes, when two large hands hit the bar, caging me in from behind.
I suck in a breath, stiffening as chills race across my skin, and try to catch Terri’s attention. Surely, someone in here will help me.But before my panic can turn into a full-out attack, a pair of lips hover over the shell of my ear.
“Whatthe fuckare you doing here?” a very familiar voice whispers, his breath hot against my skin.
I shiver—maybe from relief, and maybe fromneeding relief.
I don’t know if it’s because we’re on neutral ground or because the last time we were together, he read that I want a one-night stand, but either way, the air between us sizzles with tension, perfumed by the peppery notes of his cologne, and my body vibrates along with it.
“These assholes are gonna eat you alive,” he says, chuckling. “Or maybe that’s what you’re after.”
“Maybe,” I say after a long pause that only serves to thicken the space between us.
“Found any viable candidates?”
