“Hey, yourself.” I set down two waters and slid in across from him. “How was work?”
“Long. The Jarvis case is dragging because our client keeps changing his mind about what he wants in the settlement.” Chase rubbed his eyes. “Let’s not talk about work. How are you?”
“Good. We’re trying to figure out what to do with Sunday nights now thatHorny Rivalsis over. The Lightning season will go for anotherfew months—even longer if they make the playoffs—and baseball is kicking into gear.” I took a sip of water. “Still, we need something to draw the non-sporty gays. Drag shows are winning the debate so far. Lady Voltage and her crew are incredible.”
“I liked her. She told me I had ‘good bone structure for a lawyer.’”
“I enjoy your . . . bone structure.”
He chuckled. “Just for a lawyer?”
“The jury’s still out on the rest.”
Chase laughed, and I wrapped myself in the warmth of the sound.
This—sitting across from him in my bar on a quiet Thursday night, just talking—this felt right. It felt like something I’d been missing for far too long without knowing it.
“You’ve got to be hungry. What can I get you?” I asked. “Rod made this amazing steak special tonight. They’re calling it The Mother of all Mole.”
“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me.”
“We established that on your kitchen counter,” I said with a smirk. “But we’re talking dinner here.”
He shook his head. “The Mole Mama sounds good.”
“Ooh, I like that better. We might need to rename the dish.”
I left to put in the order. When I came back,Chase had his laptop out but wasn’t looking at it. He was watching the bar—watching Benji chat up customers and Jacks restocking beer and clearing tables, the easy rhythm we’d all fallen into.
“You’ve built something good here,” Chase said when I sat back down.
“We’re getting there. Mark thinks if we keep this pace, we’ll be profitable by summer—not just covering basic costs but actually making money.”
“That’s amazing, Finn.”
“It’s terrifying,” I admitted. “But yeah. It’s good.”
We talked while he ate—about the bar, about his work, and about my guys behind the bar who no longer disguised their stares and grins. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t stressed about ticket times or drink orders or whether we had enough clean glasses. I was just there . . . with Chase.
And we were having an actual conversation that lasted longer than fifteen minutes and had greater depth than a puddle after an afternoon Tampa rainstorm.
The next week, the Lightning played the Rangers at home. The arena was sold out, so the bar was mobbed with guys who couldn’t get tickets to watch in person. By puck drop, we were at capacity.
Chase showed up during the second period, weaving through the crowd to find me behind thebar.
“I can’t stay long,” he said, having to shout over the noise. “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow, but I wanted to see you.”
“You came just to see me?” I asked, as if I had no idea why he was back.
“Obviously.” He smiled. “Can I get a quesadilla to go?”
I shoved a beer toward him and punched in the order. His dinner arrived a short time later, and despite telling him that his money was no good in Barbacks, he left cash on the bar as he rose.
But before he left, he caught my eye and mouthed, “Come over after you close?”
And so I did, shuffling into his house at 2 a.m. to find him passed out on his couch, the TV still blaring, and a book splayed open on his lap. I kissed him awake and helped him up the stairs, then crawled into bed behind him, wrapping my arms around his body. I fell asleep to his steady breathing, only briefly wondering how an act so simple could offer so much peace.
February rolled in with temps in the mid-eightiesand thick Florida humidity that settled over Tampa like a wet blanket. The Lightning players were pushing hard toward the playoffs, and every home game brought packed houses to the bar, most sporting the blue and white of the home team.
