Chief Sparks. Beer in hand, forearms flexing against the rolled sleeves of his navy shirt, laughing at something Bear says.
Perfect. Just perfect.
My stomach dips. Of course he’s here.
Hollywood smiles and nods in our direction.
Russell whistles. “Oof. That’s a midlife crisis I’d risk.”
“Stop it,” I hiss. “He’s?—”
“—not gay. I know. But maybe I could turn him.”
I giggle. “As long as you don’t turn Flint’s head, we’re good.”
“Chief Sparks? Interesting. One Sparks not enough for you, you want the dad as well?” He tuts with a grin. “You’re a bad girl, Seraphina.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you love me. I’m your emotional support homosexual. Now smile like you’re thriving.”
I try. Sort of.
He orders drinks, flipping his hair at the bartender. “Two shots of caramel vodka, a cider, and a beer for my wounded heart.”
I hide behind Russell’s tall frame. Knowing Flint, he’d probably burst a blood vessel if he saw me with shots. He was meticulous at measuring out my wine at Thanksgiving.
I try not to look his way.Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
Too late.
Russell hands me a shot of vodka and a cider.
Flint’s lips press into a tight line as he locks eyes with me, giving me a silent warning, all authority and disapproval. But he’s not the police, and he’s certainly not my dad.
You want him to be your daddy, though.
I silence the annoying voice in my head, then I turn to Russell. “Where did Jo go?”
He shrugs. “Probably chatting up someone already.”
I laugh loudly and swat Russell’s chest. It’s all for show, of course. For a certain fire chief, but Russell isn’t in on my sudden display of affection and furrows his brow as he stares down at me like I’m a crazy person. Maybe I am.
“Shall we find her?” I lift my shot and knock it back, then grab my cider, hook my arm through his and lead the way through the crowd, hoping my little show is getting Flint wound up, and he doesn’t know Russell is actually gay.
We weave through the crowd, the sticky floor grabbing at my heels.
Music from the band thrums through my chest. I laugh too loudly at something that isn’t funny, swaying to the beat.
A couple of guys near the pool table whistle, and I grin back, because why not? If Chief wants to stare, let him.
The older one giving fisherman vibes leans against the table, wiry beard peppered with grey. “Can I buy you a drink, missy?” he asks, voice slimy like seaweed.
Flint’s watching, jaw ticking. Good.
“Sure,” I say, flashing the stranger a smile. “Vodka tonic. Heavy on the vodka.”
He laughs and guides me back to the bar, then waves the barman over, resting a hand on the back of my stool. Too close. But I don’t move, knowing Flint’s watching.
