I couldn’t think of a snappy comeback because, well, that’s what I wanted to do. I’d daydreamed about getting Finn naked and sucking every drop . . .
That’s when I changed out of my work clothes and into jeans and a T-shirt that should have been relegated to the “gym clothes” pile but wascomfortable enough that I didn’t care. I stepped into the bar around six-thirty. The Lightning game had only a few minutes left. Unlike a couple of nights ago when I could’ve heard my own thoughts echo off the empty walls, the bar was packed.
Like, standing-room-only packed.
Every table was full.
People stood three-deep at the bar.
The energy was so electric and chaotic it felt overwhelming in the best possible way.
I managed to snag a table just as someone left. Ironically, it was the same booth I’d sat in two nights ago. That made me smile.
I ordered a beer and a burger from the barback. He said his name was Jackson but told me to call him Jacks. He was enthusiastic and friendly in a way that made me feel ancient at twenty-six. The moment he scampered away from my table, I settled in to watch the show.
And to watch Finn.
Because as much as I was obsessed withHorny Rivals—and I was—I couldn’t stop watching Finn work.
He was behind the bar, moving with a kind of controlled intensity that was mesmerizing. He poured drinks, mixed cocktails, and pulledbeers from the tap, all while talking to customers and giving instructions to Jacks and occasionally yelling something to an older guy who kept running in and out like he was on some kind of endless supply run.
Finn looked good.
He wasn’t just attractive—though he wasdefinitelythat, with his auburn hair catching the light every time he moved and his eyes bright even from across the room. No, he didn’t just look hot; he looked competent and in command, like he’d been doing this for years instead of days.
I watched in unabashed awe as he handled what would have overwhelmed most people in the first hour.
When someone dropped a glass near the bar—shattering it across the floor—Finn had it cleaned up in thirty seconds, glass swept, floor wiped, new drink in the customer’s hand before they could even finish apologizing.
When the crowd had erupted after the Lightning won in overtime, he’d been right there with them, grinning and high-fiving customers and looking genuinely thrilled.
He was good at this.
Reallygood.
And watching him be good at something, watching him be confident and capable and completely inhis element—it did something to me.
Made my chest feel tight.
Made me want to stay even though I was exhausted.
Made me hope he’d make his way over to my table so we could have a conversation that wasn’t just me ordering food while he fidgeted with a bar towel.
But he didn’t.
As theHorny Rivalscredits rolled, people started filtering out.
But not everyone, only enough that the bar went from “definitely a fire hazard” to “probably still too many people but technically following the law.”
A few dozen stragglers stayed. They chatted loudly about the game and about whether the two hockey players inHorny Rivalswould get together or if the writers would drag it out for another season. The Lightning jersey guy and his friends were still in their corner, now reenacting various scenes from the episode with increasing inaccuracy and decreasing coordination.
I couldn’t stop glancing at the bar.
Finn was working, still moving, still buried in orders and questions and the general chaos of running a bar by himself.
Jacks appeared at my table with another beer I hadn’t ordered. “On the house,” he said, setting itdown. “Boss’s orders.”
“The boss?” I looked at the bar.
