I try to lose myself in the flow of orders and receipts, the frictionless grace of routine, but it’s hopeless. My body keeps turning of its own accord, glancing out the window even when I swear I’m not going to. Every time I do, Evan is still there — shirtless, working in the open sun, glistening with sweat.Watching him makes my insides feel like carbonated water: all pop and fizz, no substance, just waiting to spill over the edge.
Every now and then he catches me watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to raise a hand in a lazy wave or flash a smile that’s real, not the practiced kind I wear for the customers. Then he’s back to work, shoulders hunched over the next row of shingles, arms moving with the easy violence of a man who’s been breaking things his whole life and can’t stop now.
Evan works like he belongs here.
And that thought is a problem.
Because hedoesn’tbelong here. Not in the Devils’ orbit. Not in my world. Not mixed into the place where secrets get dug up and paid for in blood.
I did this. I asked Claire for the favor, and she didn’t say no. She looked at me with that calm, dangerous patience she uses when she’s deciding whether someone is a liability.
Now Evan is on club property.
In danger. More danger than he knows.
And I can’t stop watching him.
Riley cruises back behind the bar with her usual hurricane energy, but this time she catches me mid-stare, eyes locked on the window with all the subtlety of a car alarm at three a.m. She doesn’t even bother being sneaky about it — just follows my line of sight, then grins like she’s watching a soap opera and I’m the lead.
“He’s hot,” she says, voice pitched for my ears but loud enough to make Diesel snort his drink two stools down.
I try to kill the conversation with a glare, which in my experience works on everyone except Riley and the regulars too drunk to register fear. “Riley.”
“What? He is.”
“He’s just a contractor.”
“Uh-huh.” She leans closer, eyes bright. “And you’re just… an emotionally stable bartender who keeps a shotgun under the bar.”
I glare. “Do you want to die?”
Riley laughs and holds up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Not hot, and you’re definitely not staring.”
I turn, grabbing a fresh bottle from the cooler just to have something to do with my hands. “Good.”
Riley’s voice drops, teasing but gentler now. “Molly… you deserve something good.”
My throat tightens, and I shove it down. “I deserve tips and quiet co-workers.”
She gives me a look that says she knows better, then she slips away back into the chaos, leaving me with my shame and the sweat-slicked view of Evan nailing down roof tiles like he’s punishing the building on purpose and wondering if I can ask him to spank me like a shingle sometime.
I make it through the shift on fumes because I spend most of my energy either staring out the window or fighting with myself to not stare out the window and do my damn job.
By late afternoon, the rush thins. The air cools. The noise settles into that low, familiar hum of the clubhouse breathing between storms of customers. When I finally clock out at the end of the night, my feet ache, my shoulders are tight, and I smell like fryer oil and bourbon and other people’s problems. I say my goodbyes to Riley and Mayhem, who are arm wrestling for control of the jukebox, and head out into the chilly night.
I drive home with both hands locked on the wheel, as if I can steer myself away from temptation if I grip hard enough. The parking lot at my building is quiet. Evan’s atrocious sedan is parked in its usual spot.
I climb the stairs to the door and walk inside my apartment, keys in hand, brain already listing what I need to do tonight:shower, study for next week’s exam, maybe email my professor about office hours.
Be smart. Be reasonable. Be Molly.
At my door, I stop.
My hand hovers over the knob.
And I just… can’t.
Because the truth is sitting heavy in my chest: I’m already in too deep to pretend this is casual. Too deep to pretend I didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time watching Evan work shirtless and sweaty and that the image of him has been running through my head all night. Too deep to pretend that I didn’t put my name and reputation on the line for him because he’s made me feel a way that I swore I’d never feel again, and that I love him for it.
