“You can call me Beck. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” The giggle escapes before I can stop it.
Jake’s gaze flicks between us and he groans. “No bodily fluids in my bar.”
“None of it.” I widen my eyes innocently. He never said anything about outside the bar. So the parking lot is fair game, right?
“All right. I’ve got paperwork,” Jake mutters.
“Aye aye, Captain.” I salute.
He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth twitches into an almost smile before he retreats back to his office.
Beck leans in, forearms resting on the bar. “Well, Nora… teach me the ways of bartending.”
For a second, I forget how words work as I search for a way out of his hypnotic deep, brown eyes. “Oh—right. Bartending.” I clear my throat and slide past him, suddenly hyperaware of my limbs in close proximity to his. I give him the quick tour of the bar, the taps, the glassware, the storage room, and the POS system. Once Rylee finishes inventory, I send Beck to stock the cooler. Mostly so I can watch his muscles flex as he lifts cases of beer.
Lach nudges my side. “You really want to break Jake’s rule, don’t you?”
“What?” My cheeks ignite. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Beck. The very obvious dirty thoughts running through your mind.”
I hate that he’s absolutely right. But also, I won’t admit it. “There are no dirty thoughts.”
He laughs. “What if I told you he plays hockey?”
I freeze. Slowly turn. “Wait—what? Like… beer league hockey?”
Lach grins. “Like NHL. Retired now. But he was the goalie for the Mavericks.”
Well, that explains… a lot. The way Beck takes up space isn’t arrogance, it’s second nature. Like his body still remembers arenas, bright lights, and crowds chanting his name, even as he stands in front of a bar cooler holding a case of domestic beer. His shirt stretches across his back, his forearm flexing in a way that suggests he could easily carry heavy things, kegs, furniture… me. I swallow. Hard. Suddenly, the room grows smaller. Warmer. My pulse decides to audition for a drumline in my throat. Cool. Love that for me. Jake’s rule suddenly feels less policy and more personal dare.
“So…” I drift toward the cooler. “You used to play professional hockey, and now you’re in Harbor Highlands serving drinks. What happened from A to B?”
“Well,” he says easily, sliding a six-pack into place, “I played ten years in the NHL. Got injured. Retired. So I pulled out a map and threw a dart. This is where it landed.”
I squint. “Really?”
He grins. “No. I’ve known Jake most of my life.”
“Wait. How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“And you came here because of Jake?”
“He was friends with my older brother. The three of us were always close. Jake likes it here, so I figured it couldn’t be that bad.”
“Jake has literally never lived anywhere else,” I point out.
He laughs. “Yeah… but he stayed for a reason. Plus, there are rumors circulating that the squirt hockey team could use a new coach.”
Before I can respond, Beck steps in and takes over a cluster of customers at the far end of the bar. The noise level drops around me, giving me a moment to breathe. I lean back against the bar, exhale for the first time all night, and pull out my phone. The app opens instantly—the one that’s been quietly hijacking my sanity for the past twelve months.
The OneDate screen loads—and there it is. The same stubborn line of broken code. The harsh reminder that everything I’ve built is one bug away from collapsing. Tension coils low in my stomach. If this app fails, it’s not only a bad business idea, it’s all the hours I coded while Mom slept, the freelance jobs I turned down, the savings I burned through convincing myself I could still be more than just the girl who came home to take care of her mother. This app is supposed to be what saves us.
“What are you working on?” Beck’s voice drifts up behind me, and I nearly launch out of my skin.
