Late afternoon at The Noble Fir is the type of busy that looks harmless until you’re in it — glasses clinking, pool balls cracking, the low roar of men who think they own every inch of air they breathe. I’m three deep at the bar, sliding beers and taking cash, when the front door opens, scraping over the gritty doormat with a familiar resistance. The air shifts. Not colder, not warmer, just a subtle displacement that makes me pause with a pint of amber in my hand.
And then he steps in. Evan.
Not strutting. Not showing off. Just… comfortable. I watch the way he moves through the crowd. He nods at two guys — Bishop and Havoc — and they nod back, lazy and unsuspicious, like he’s been in here a hundred times and belongs to the woodwork. Like the patch on every Devil’s cut he passes isn’t a warning label in block letters.
I want to believe it’s an accident, the way he’s acting. I need to believe it’s an accident, because the alternative — Evan breaking my rule that he stay as far away from the MC as he can — makes every nerve ending in my body want to crawl out of my skin.
Then he walks straight to Mayhem, Bones, and Reaper, taking the open chair at their table like it’s his. Like he belongs.
My first instinct is pure, stupid, manslaughter-level irritation.
Evan, what the hell are you doing?
I told him to keep his distance from the club. To keep a low profile. Don’t get friendly. Don’t get seen. Don’t give anyone a reason to look at him twice. Which is a rule that he already repeatedly broke when he decided to work shirtless and sweaty, but that I can forgive because the view was incredible, but this?
Here he is — sitting with Devils like he’s family, laughing at something Mayhem says while Reaper shoves a basket of fries toward him.
I yank a bottle cap off with a little more force than necessary.
Riley glides by with a tray, her ponytail bouncing. She bumps my shoulder lightly, eyes tracking Evan through the crowd.
“Oh,” she says, casual as hell. “So that’s him. I haven’t seen him this close-up before.”
I don’t look at her. “Who is this ‘him’ you’re talking about?”
Riley hums as if she’s indulging a toddler and makes me want to slap the smile off her face. Except I never would, because hiring her was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made and I often wonder how I made it through this job without her. “The guy you’re definitely not crushing on.”
“I’m not crushing on anyone.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Your face says you are.”
“My face says I’m working. My words do, too.”
“Your face says you want to bite him,” she replies. “Or kiss him. Maybe both.”
I shoot her a look. “Shove it.”
“And I won’t even talk about your eyes. You are not subtle about staring out the window. Unless you happen to be really interested in roofing in general?”
“I like roofing. It’s fascinating.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. All that home improvement stuff… I love it. Bob Vila was my first crush.”
Riley grins like she lives for my discomfort and walks off before I can throw something at her.
I force my hands to keep moving — pour, slide, smile, money, receipt, repeat — because if I stare too long, someone will notice. Someone will ask questions. And then I’ll not only have to acknowledge out loud to the people I work with these feelings that I definitely don’t have, but I’ll have to stop and think about how the man that I went out on a limb for is getting in close with the people I explicitly, desperately warned him to stay away from.
He’s going to get hurt; this world isn’t meant for someone like him. Someone… normal. Normal in a way that I can’t help but love, normal in a way that makes me feel so safe it scares the shit out of me.
I keep my head down until I hear Mayhem’s laugh — loud, obnoxious, infectious — followed by Evan’s voice. Low. Measured. Not the open, earnest voice he uses when he’s helping me study, or even the dry, deadpan humor he throws at me when he thinks I’m about to combust. This is different. It’s… smooth. Not oily, just practiced. Like he’s spent years talking to men like Reaper and Bones.
I glance up before I can stop myself.
Evan is leaning back in his chair, forearm on the table, shoulders relaxed. His hair’s still damp with sweat at the edges, fresh from his hard work on the roof. His shirt fits him in that unfair way that makes women do stupid math with their morals and common sense. Subtraction, mostly.
Bones is talking, animated, hands moving. Reaper’s watching Evan like he’s deciding what kind of man he is. And Evan is holding his own; he isn’t out of place. This is easy for him.
