CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Yet again another week slips through our fingers. Days blur into nights faster than they should, but every night ends with my bare skin against Gareth’s, his body curved around mine. It feels natural—right.
The scent of him—clean soap, sandalwood, and something uniquelyhim—clings to his T-shirt as he kisses me goodbye. Resting his forehead against mine, his fingers linger at my waist, warm and possessive, holding me like he’s having a hard time letting me go.
“I could just tell them I’m not coming,” he breathes, teeth grazing my bottom lip.
I smile against him, chest straining with longing. “Just go, I have to work anyway.”
“It’s just a barbecue, the guys will understand.” His hands slide lower, wrapping around to my ass. He uses his grip to pull me closer, nose nuzzling my ear. “I could go to work with you.”
Heat coils low in my belly. “No, sir—it’s notjusta barbecue, it’s a barbecue at your coach's house.” I push against his chest, forcing space between us. “Go.”
“Text me as soon as you’re off,” he commands, his voice low and growly. The promise of what’s to come later sends another current of electricity through me, landing straight in my core.
“I will. I promise. Nowgo. You’re going to be late.”
He leans in for one last kiss, letting it linger, then flashes that boyish grin that makes my heart leap. Walking backward, his hand stays connected with mine until the last possible second. Still, he doesn’t turn away—just keeps walking backward until his back bumps into his truck.
“I love you, Indy Archer!” he yells as he opens the driver’s door, eyes never leaving mine.
Laughter spills out of me. I fold my arms over my chest, shaking my head slowly as I work to mask how he’s completely unraveling me. I can tell he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Love you too, Golden Boy.”
An hour later I step into the empty bar, ready to get things prepped for another busy Friday night. Light pours through the open office door—Rosie’s already here, another day buried in paperwork. She’s good at masking her stress, but the tightness in her shoulders tells another story. I don’t envy her.
Busying myself behind the counter, my thoughts drift back to Gareth as I dry glasses and make sure the top shelf is stocked. Memories of his hands on my body, warm and commanding, as he traces his fingers over my skin. The faint marks hidden beneath my clothes, proof of his claiming and possessiveness.
A soft sigh leaves me as I move from task to task, as the memories of this week slide into my thoughts. How on Monday night—or was it Tuesday?—we drove aimlessly until we found the most delicious taco truck on the outskirts of town. Plastic tables and chairs set up, simple and inviting. We ordered way too much, yet still went back for more. Gareth spilled salsa down his shirt, only to make the mess much worse when he triedto wipe it. I laughed so hard, soda burned all the way down, stinging my sinuses as I choked on it.
Then there was last night. My kitchen, Gareth cooking in his black sweatpants hanging so low a stiff wind could have blown them clean down his legs. Lucky for him, he sported a hard-on that tented them, keeping them securely in place. I guess only wearing one of his threadbare Bears T-shirts and lacy boy shorts didn’t help his case, but man, the spontaneous sex on my counter was worth it.
A bottle of Patron nearly slips from my hand.
My heart leaps as I catch it, shoving it back onto the shelf where it belongs.
Pull yourself together, Indy.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket.
I pull it out, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip as I suppress a smile.
Golden Boy
Already miss you. Should have followed you to work like a sad puppy dog instead.
Before I can reply, the door to the bar slams shut.
I groan, irritated. It’s barely four. “We’re clo?—”
The words die in my throat, heart sinking as a man in a black balaclava rushes toward me, handgun aimed at my chest.
I freeze.
“Put the cash in the bag,” he snaps, pushing a dirty black backpack in my face.
The crack of gunshots explode in my mind.
The drive-by. The shooting that happened here, in this same bar, not that long ago. Preston, The Sinners’ prospect who died that day. My friend.
