Publicly.
Then he offered the last insult.
“We don’t have to stop seeing each other,” he said. “We can just be discreet. You can still be with me. Just… quietly.”
My body went rigid the minute he suggested I was worth nothing more than being his freaky fantasy.
I looked at him, really looked at him. It was then that I saw the truth clearly for the first time. I wasn’t his love. I was his indulgence.
“Choke on a dick,” I told him calmly. “Just not mine.”
That was the last time I ever spoke to him.
He relocated not long after. The last thing I heard through the grapevine was that he’s married with kids. A neat little life wrapped in the approval he wanted.
The memory loosens its grip just as a sharp voice cuts through the bar.
“Excuse me. Are you going to take my order or what?”
I blink and look up. My irritation is already flaring.
And there he is.
Calil Black.
Of course.
My annoyance sharpens instantly, curling hot and protective in my chest. Tonight of all nights, the universe decides to test my patience.
I straighten, mask sliding back into place, but inside, I already know one thing.
I do not trust men who look at love like something they can rearrange to fit their comfort. And I am not about to let history repeat itself.
I straighten my shoulders and fix him with a look that has ended arguments and nights alike.
“What can I get you,” I ask, flat and professional, “Sir.”
Calil smiles like he enjoys being called sir. Like he enjoys me trying not to enjoy him.
“Highball,” he says smoothly. “Uncle Nearest. Ginger ale. Heavy on the ice. You knew? I’ve never seen you in here before. I was rather surprised to see the woman who loves giving me her ass to kiss behind the bar tonight,” he smirked.
I rolled my eyes at his smart-ass comment before critiquing his order. “Of course this is your drink of choice,” I mutter, already reaching for the bottle.
“Something wrong with my taste?” he asks.
I pour deliberately slow. “It tracks.”
“Tracks how?”
“Tracks in that you’d order this serious ass drink,” I say, sliding the glass to him. “To match your serious ass attitude.”
He laughs lowly with a warmth that shouldn’t make me smile, but it does. “You got jokes instead of grunts. That’s a first and I like it.”
“I don’t care what you like,” I reply.
“Sure you do,” he says, lifting the glass. “You clocked me the second I walked up.”
I scowl. “You’re not special.”
