The driver shows up ten minutes later, an older woman with sleepy eyes and a travel mug of coffee. The drive down to the cliffs takes less than ten minutes.
The bar’s parking lot is full, headlights cutting through the fog. Music and laughter spill out each time the door opens.Inside, the air hits me warm and thick with beer, fried food, and the faint sweetness of cologne.
Keith’s behind the counter, his hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos winding up his arms. He looks up and smiles. “Millie Harper. Didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Something fruity. Not too sweet.”
He nods, grabs a shaker, and starts mixing. “You want a table?”
“I’ll find one.”
He slides the glass toward me a minute later—a pink drink with lime and a sugar rim. “First one’s on me. You look like you need it.”
I grin. “You’re a saint, Keith.”
“Tell that to my ex-wife.”
I laugh and move toward the pool tables in the back. Only one’s in use. Someone’s already playing.
He’s tall—broad shoulders under a button-down the color of storm clouds, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His jeans fit just right, boots scuffed from real use. His movements are precise but unhurried, like the game answers to him.
He sinks a shot cleanly and straightens, noticing me for the first time.
“Sorry,” he says, voice low and smooth. “Didn’t know anyone else around here plays. Haven’t had a challenger since I got in.”
I take a sip of my drink, the sugar biting my tongue. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling competitive.”
He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s not used to being surprised. “You any good?”
“I can hold my own.”
He steps aside, offering me the cue. “Show me.”
When I pass by him, I catch the scent—leather, cedar, and something clean. My pulse skips.
The table’s slick, the felt new. I bend to line up a shot, conscious of his eyes on me. The ball cracks into another, both rolling into the pocket.
“Not bad,” he murmurs.
“Not bad yourself,” I say, straightening. “You new?”
“Something like that.”
“Brave.”
“Desperate’s more accurate.” His smile returns, faint but real. “You?”
“Born and raised. Left for a while. Came back for… reasons.”
“Good reasons?”
“Complicated ones.”
He nods like he understands that kind of answer. “I’m Knox, by the way.”
“Millie.”
We shake hands, and it’s ridiculous how aware I am of the warmth of his palm and the faint scrape of callused skin.
