“Sorry. Can’t help you.”
My smile drops another inch. “If you want references, I can get them. I’ve worked in bars and restaurants off and on. I know my way around patrons. I just needa shot.”
“No.”
I might as well be begging a wall. If the sob story isn’t moving him, what will? Anger spikes.
Men are usually easy in one specific way—they want to be needed. They want to be the hero. They want the pretty girl to look at them like they matter.
Apparently, I’ve found the one man who doesn’t fit the mold.
“Why not?” I press. “You have a help wanted sign in your window…?”
And because I can’t help myself—because last night taught me what happens when I stop paying attention—I clock the layout the way I would on the scene of an accident. The way I’ve been subconsciously doing ever since I was a little girl who woke up to intruders in her house.
Exit to the right. Another door down the bar—kitchen, maybe. Hallway beyond that. Bathroom probably back there. Staircase curling up to the balcony at my spine.
Plenty of dark corners and blind spots.
The bathroom taught me this: darkness is a weapon.
Goosebumps lift along my arms. I breathe in deep through my nose and look back at the bartender, who’s simply watching me, silent. “Answer me,” I demand.
“‘No’ is an answer.”
He holds my stare like he’s done this a thousand times and never lost. Like I’m the unreasonable one.
No, that is not an answer. Not the one I want, anyway.I drum my fingers impatiently on the bar. How far to push?
The back door swings open. Movement flashes in my periphery, and my whole body reacts before I can stop it.
Broad shoulders. Familiar gait. Charming smile.
Shiloh.
An ugly flash of relief slices through me—and it’s ugly because I hate that I feel it. Hate that my body decidessafebecause I recognize him.
Resentment follows right behind. Because I don’t need backup. I need answers. And the second Shiloh is in the room, the questions multiply.
What the actual fuck?
Shiloh’s recognition shows only in the curve of his lips. The smile stops below his nose, and his eyes narrow on me before he closes the distance and stops with inches to spare.
“Reva.” His voice drops, amused. “As I live and breathe.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the bartender go still. It’s only for a second, and then his hands continue swiping the rag lazily across the top of the bar.
Shiloh’s twang lands two different ways—raises my hacklesandsends warmth to a place I don’t want to acknowledge today.
“Shiloh,” I reply. “My disappearing dinner and dancing date.”
“Look at that alliteration. Spare me, Yank…you know I didn’t run out on you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and glance away, knowing he’s right.
“If I’d have known Noir was your destination,” he continues, “hell, I’d have saved you the ride and that little pit stop at Murray’s.”
I say nothing.
