“Poor Matty,” Nessa lamented.
“PoorLila.” I polished off my drink. “Mo is going to eat her alive.”
Mo was Matty’s nine-month-old basset hound and the most territorial bitch I had ever met. This Lila didn’t stand a chance.
I sat back, tuning out the girlfriend slander and instead, turning my attention to the string lights draped overhead, reflecting off the glassware polished to a shine. The whole tavern smelled like campfire, wood varnish, and whiskey-soaked memories. It was exactly what you wanted from a neighborhood bar, the kind of place where peopleactuallyknew your name and where they came to remember, forget, or fall in love—and sometimes all three in one night.
Thatwas Rose City, a town that made space for strangers and residents alike, exactly as they were—messy, loud, broken, brilliant. They all had a home here.
And I did, too.
I was still trying to wrap my head around it—or maybe that was the vodka talking—but at some point over the past few months, I had stopped thinking of Rose City as just another stopover in my career and had started treating it as a potential forever. Me, a thirty-two-year-old orphan who had spent the first half of her life dreaming of a world beyond her rowhouse stoop and the second half bouncing from one city to the next, searching for somewhere, anywhere to belong. Who would have guessed I would find it three-thousand miles away in a town so small, it didn’t even have a mayor?
The clock ticked down, inching closer to midnight. Partygoers flocked to scoop up snacks and drink refills. In between the chaos, I couldn’t help but notice a blond man leaning against the bar top, watching me like he thought he was being subtle.
Spoiler alert: he wasn’t. I had clocked him thirty minutes ago, as had the rest of my friends.
“You should go talk to him,” Clarke suggested, appearing at my side like a chaotic party goblin. “Don’t you want somebody to kiss at midnight?”
I arched a brow. “Aww, babe, are you offering?”
She never had a chance to respond. A large, hairy arm circled her waist, dragging her away. “Sorry, Dani,” Soren said, his voice thick with lust. “I’ve already got big plans for her lips tonight.”
Clarke giggled, settling back onto Soren’s lap. “I’m serious. He’s cute and well-dressedandreally knows how to rock a . . .” She turned toward June. “What do you call it?”
“Porn ‘stache.”
The table burst into a fit of giggles while Clarke blushed at the mention of anything remotely risqué.
Pink tilted his glass in my direction. “I’m with Clarke Kent. He doesn’t look like a total douchebag. In fact, he reminds me of somebody.”
“Freddie Mercury?” I offered. “Temu edition.”
He leaned in conspiratorially and winked. “Just imagine what he can do with that mustache.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “I appreciate the thought, but hey, I’m not the only single one at this table. Maybe June wants him.”
She shook her head. “Nah, I’m officially declaring myself emotionally unavailable to male energy for tonight.” Her eyes bounced between Soren and Pink. “No offense, guys.”
“None taken,” they answered simultaneously.
“You don’t have to marry the guy,” Clarke said, not letting up. She had officially crossed from tipsy and cute to drunk and bold. “But some harmless flirtation couldn’t hurt. Or a kiss at midnight. When was the last time you really kissed somebody?”
Nessa arched a brow at me over her drink, making my stomach lurch. We were skirting dangerously close to the edge of that memory. Tohim.But Clarke didn’t know that.
In fact, the only people in the world who knew anything about my last kiss were Pink and Nessa, and that was only because Nessa had bumped into him in our upstairs hallway.
Naked.
Him, not Nessa.
The events that followed were permanently etched in my brain like the ink on my skin. Nessa had screamed, Pink had rushed in, and that was how my best friendandroommate had found out that I was screwing his boss, Brooks Bailey-Ward.
Coach Daddy.
He may have been Coach Ward to Soren, Pink, and the rest of the Roaster family, but the fans had affectionately—sometimestooaffectionately—had referred to him as Coach Daddy since he’d signed with the Roasters. With good reason, too—he was a daddy, in all senses of the word.
He was probably at home right now. Warm house, dim lights, his daughter, Carolina, tucked in upstairs with her mermaid nightlight and a mountain of Squishmallows. I imagined him reading to her, voice low and steady, that soft scratch of stubble on his jaw as he turned the page. I could practically smell the cedarwood on his hoodie.
