He puts both hands up. “Okay, okay. I’m going.” He slides off the stool, still grinning. “But for the record, I support you. As your emotional support gremlin.”
“Away,” I repeat.
He saunters away like he’s won.
I exhale through my nose and force myself back into the bar’s rhythm. Pour. Wipe. Bill. Smile — short, sharp, professional. My body knows how to do this. My brain knows how to do this.
Then I mis-pour a whiskey.
I catch it before it tops the line, but the mistake is enough to make my stomach knot.
Goddamn it.
I set the bottle down, wipe the bar, and recheck the pour spout like it’s the problem. Like it’s not me, lost in my thoughts about a man who loves to get lost between my legs.
Focus, Molly. Fuck.
Riley slips behind the bar with a tray of empties, her bun bouncing as she dumps glasses into the sink. She glances at me, then at my face like she’s reading a menu.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod too fast. “I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe a word, but she doesn’t push. “You’ve got that look,” she says, lowering her voice. “Like you’re about to stab someone… or kiss them.”
I shoot her a glare that should peel paint.
Riley grins anyway. “Just saying.”
“Go flirt with Breaker or whatever it is you do here besides work,” I mutter.
“I don’t just flirt with Breaker,” she says, offended.
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You flirt witheveryone,” I say.
She taps my arm with the edge of her tray. “Not true. Also, can I get four margaritas for table seven?”
“Fine,” I say, checking the clock. “I need you to wipe down table six before Rabid decides to complain like he pays rent.”
Riley salutes dramatically. “Yes, ma’am.”
She heads back out, and I try to breathe through the rest of the shift like a normal person who doesn’t feel like her skin is too tight and her pulse is doing cartwheels in her chest every time she thinks of a certain handyman neighbor.
“Once again, last call,” I shout.
Things close quickly after that — tabs, mouths, and then the door behind the last of the locals as they shuffle out and into the parking lot. I wipe down the bar one last time and grab my bag from under the counter. My phone buzzes again.
This time, I look.
Evan:I know it’s last call. You’ll be off soon. I’m waiting for you at the Ironwood Diner.
My mouth does something traitorous.
It curves. And not just into a smile, but a genuine grin — soft, stupid, bright — like I’m eighteen again and he’s leaning in too close behind the gym and I can’t remember my own name.
For one dangerous second, I feel like a teenager in love.
Chapter Seventeen
