I turn to find Mia leaning against the corner of the bar, her coat half-off, and her hair windblown.
“Hey.” I shift enough to include her, though her attention is locked on the woman beside me.
“I see you’ve met Summer,” Mia says, wry but affectionate. The introduction makes me realize I never asked for her name.
Summer.
It fits.
My favorite season.
Something about her feels familiar, but I still can’t place her face. I look at her again, trying to catch whatever my brain is missing.
Summer looks between us. “You know each other?”
“Yeah.” Mia draws the word out. “This is Miles—Miles King. He plays with Dom.”
“Hockey?” Summer tilts her head. “I still think pickleball was a solid guess. Your face is way too handsome for hockey.”
Beside me, Mia scoffs, but I don’t look away from Summer.
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, the reddish-brown strands catching the light. It’s shorter around her face, brushing her cheekbones. Her eyes are darker than mine, almost black in this light. And her mouth is full. Soft. And tips up when she catches me looking at it.
“And this is Summer Starling, future country music legend,” Mia announces, pride clear in her voice.
That’s when it clicks.
Ihaveseen her before.
“You were on the show,” I blurt. “You’re The One.”
“Guilty,” she replies, and I lose her gaze when it shifts to Mia. “How’re you doing?”
“Better. The fresh air helped.” Mia winces before adding, “But don’t hate me… I called Dom to pick us up.”
Summer stands, her knees leaving my side, taking with them the warmth they brought. I miss the connection immediately.
She slips an arm around Mia, resting her chin on her shoulder. “Don’t even worry about it, buttercup.”
Mia side-eyes her, but her shoulders drop as she leans into the hug.
The two chat, trying to pull me in, but I’m too aware of the clock running out. Too busy trying to figure out how to stretch out my time with Summer. And then questioning why the hell I’m so drawn to her in the first place.
“He’s here,” Mia announces, checking her phone before zipping her coat.
She steps away, and Summer moves to follow, but something in me reacts before logic can catch up. I reach out and wrap my fingers gently around her wrist.
“Stay.” The word comes out rough. Too honest.
I don’t do this. I don’t ask women to stay. That’s the whole point of keeping things casual—no expectations, no morning-afters, and no complications. One night, then we both move on.
But I’m not ready for Summer to move on.Not yet.
She freezes. Slowly looks back at me. And for a split second, I think I’ve fucked this up. Pushed too hard, wanted too much, shown my hand too soon.
And then she laughs—this bright, unguarded sound—and Jesus, it’s better than I imagined.
When her eyes meet mine again, something soft settles in them. And I realize this was never going to end the way my nights usually do.
