She let it drop. "So, when’s round two?"
I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. "Probably never. I don’t do relationships, remember?"
"Sure you don’t," she said. "But you should. You’re not broken, Krystal. You just… forgot how to want things."
That stung. I changed the subject. "How’s work?"
She groaned. "Don’t ask. My boss is a troll, and not the fun, magical kind. I almost threw my laptop at him this morning."
I laughed, and just like that, the tension eased.
We talked for a few more minutes about her job, about the mutual friend who’d gotten arrested for streaking through a haunted corn maze, and other nonsense things.
Finally, Tavi said, "Call me if you need to talk. Or if you want to brag about your new boyfriend."
I snorted. "He’s not my boyfriend."
"Yet," she said, then hung up.
I set the phone aside and drove home, feeling oddly light. Maybe I was just tired. Or maybe I liked the idea of someone wanting me, even if it was just for a night.
Back at my cottage, I put away groceries and tackled the laundry. I sorted socks, folded shirts, and set aside a stack of Bryce's outgrown jeans for donation. Every so often, I’d check my phone, just to see if he’d texted again.
He hadn’t.
I didn’t care.
I finished the laundry and sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and staring at the calendar. Work tonight, then a double shift tomorrow. Parent-teacher conference next week. Halloweencostume shopping with Rissa, Elle, and Bryce. The grind never stopped.
But underneath it all, there was a current of excitement, a hum of possibility I hadn’t felt in years. Maybe Tavi was right. Maybe it was time to want something more. But it still bothered me that I couldn’t feel the mating pull. Not really. There was something there, drawing me to him, but not strong enough to indicate that he was my mate.
Z’s Place was already humming when I got there. The parking lot overflowed with pickups and battered sedans, and the sign over the door flickered in and out, as if the neon itself was too tired to make it through another shift. I shouldered through the crowd and was met with the familiar wave of laughter, glassware, a playlist heavy on nineties grunge, and the sharp bark of Angel calling for someone to bus the corner table.
Behind the bar, Zaden was already working. He wore a button-down rolled up to his elbows and an apron tied around his waist. His hair was tousled in that impossible way that looked accidental but probably took effort. He was pouring a flight of beers for a group of tourists, laughing at their bad jokes, and moving with the kind of easy grace that made everyone else look like they were wading through Jell-O.
I clocked in, tied my apron, and scanned the night’s rotation. I had the far section with the pool tables, jukebox, and dartboard.It was my favorite, full of regulars who tipped well and knew better than to grope the help.
I made the rounds, greeting the usual suspects and got to work. Every so often, I caught Zaden watching me. Not in a creepy way, just a flash of eye contact, a lopsided smile, then back to his work. I tried not to read into it, but every time it happened, I got a flutter low in my stomach.
A few hours later, Zaden and I collided behind the service station. He caught me by the elbow before I could drop a tray of clean glasses. "You good?" he asked, low enough that only I could hear.
"Yep," I said. Just nervous as all hell about our second non-date. Okay, so maybe it was a date.
He didn’t let go, just squeezed once and stepped back. "Let me know if you need a breather."
I nodded and got back to work, but the spot where his fingers had touched me tingled for the next hour.
At the end of my shift, I clocked out and ducked into the staff break room to grab my bag so I could change. I wriggled out of my sticky work shirt and into a soft, loose sweater. I swapped out my sneakers for boots and finger-combed my hair. I didn’t have makeup with me, but a quick splash of cold water helped.
When I stepped back into the bar, Zaden was waiting, leaning against the end of the counter. He had changed, too. He'd ditched the apron and now wore jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged his chest in a way that made it very hard to look away.
He handed me a glass of water. "For the road."
I took it, drank, and set the glass down. "Thanks."
He looked at me for a moment, then said, "You want to go up to my place? I’ll cook dinner, and we could watch a movie."
I hesitated. I thought about Bryce, about the rule I’d made for myself years ago. No men in my home, no matter how hot or nice or persistent. But this wasn’t my home, and Bryce was at Nathan’s for a sleepover, which happened every Thursday like clockwork. I had no excuse, except fear.
