“If this becomes a thing, then it happens on my terms,” I say. “No clubhouse gossip. No one at The Noble Fir knows. Not Rabid, not Claire, not Goldie, not Alessia. Nobody.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “Secret. Got it.”
The speed of his agreement makes my stomach tighten. Too easy. Too smooth.
A cold thread slides under my ribs, my instincts whispering,why?
I ignore it because Evan’s gaze drops to my mouth again, and my body is a traitor.
“Fine,” I say, voice tight. “And you finish cleaning up the mess you made fixing my water heater, and then you get out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a mock salute, and then grins. “You know what I’m going to do after that? Take a look at your truck.”
“You’re impossible. Clean your shit up and get out of my apartment.”
I turn on my heel and stalk back toward my bedroom, sheet clutched like armor, my cheeks burning. Behind me, I hear him drop back to his knees, tools clinking.
And I hate —hate— how the sound makes me feel safe.
Chapter Sixteen
Molly
Last call detonates in The Noble Fir like a pack of firecrackers — sharp, staccato, and full of the promise of chaos. Glasses clatter. Voices spike, laughter thick with whiskey and all the edges sanded off by a night spent in the company of people who live and breathe loyalty. In the eye of the storm, I work fast. I stack pint glasses three deep, shuck empty bottles into a waiting bin, catch a question from the far end of the bar without needing to look up. I pride myself on efficiency, on the way my body can move through a Friday close with the cool precision of a surgeon.
But tonight I can’t seem to stay ahead of it. Because if I allow myself one second of slack, even just a flicker, my mind immediately conjures up Evan Wilder: his mouth, his hands, the way he took ownership of my kitchen like he’d always belonged there. His scent — leather, soap, something stubbornly alive — has been haunting me since he left.
I do not have time for that.
“Two IPAs, one whiskey neat!” Havoc barks from the corner booth.
“Coming,” I call, my voice a thin blade that slices through the noise. I pour with my back to the crowd, ignoring the way my pulse stutters every time the door swings open and in walks another Devil, another reminder of the family I serve and the future I’d always told myself I wanted. I fill the beers to the perfect line, just the right amount of foam, and set up thewhiskey so the glass catches the neon in a way that makes it look almost molten.
I slide the beers down the counter, set the whiskey beside them, and Havoc flashes a grin like I just saved his life.
“You’re an angel,” he says.
“I’m a bartender,” I shoot back. “Angels don’t charge twelve bucks for whiskey.”
He laughs and drags the drinks away.
I turn to the register, clutch at the next job. Cash drawer. Credit slips. Tips, all ones and fives, still warm from someone’s hand. My fingers are steady, but my brain is running a background process—one I can’t debug, can’t close, no matter how hard I try. The memory of Evan’s voice shunts through me, low and conspiratorial.
Secret. Got it.
The way he’d said it was too easy, too practiced, and the thought needles me in a way I can’t shake. I slam the register drawer with more force than necessary, not caring that the sound ricochets through the room. A couple of locals flinch. Good.
Focus, Molly.
I grab the ledger binder from under the counter — my precious, boring, beautiful sanity — and flip it open on the bar like it’s scripture. Bar inventory. Weekly totals. Vendor invoices. The numbers make sense in a way people rarely do. The numbers don’t flirt. The numbers don’t kiss you in midday sun and make you want to break every rule you built to survive.
Behind me, Tank’s low voice rumbles. “You doing math for fun now?”
“Accounting,” I say without looking up. “Try it sometime. Might help you figure out how much you lose betting Mayhem you can out-grill him.”
“You’ve lost your damn mind. On both counts.” Tank snorts like that’s adorable and insulting at the same time.
Mayhem takes the vacated stool, sliding in with the kid-brother energy that makes me want to both hug him and throw him out the nearest window. He props an elbow on the bar and somehow looks both predatory and endearing. “So, if you’re doing numbers, does that mean you’re making a budget?”
