He was about to tell her that was impossible when the door opened, and several people chimed, “Welcome,” to the newcomer.
Rafe was grabbing a glass from the wine rack when he saw the man stroll inside.
As had been the case the last night he’d been with Holt, his heart thumped painfully hard against his chest wall, and a strange churn stirred lower. Only one other person’s presence had the power to send his cardiovascular system into chaos, but Bailey Weber wasn’t with him. Which meant the response was solely for Holt Callahan.
The bastard.
Was it a good sign that Bailey wasn’t with him? Had that all been an act earlier? Had they not been at the parktogether, rather just a coincidence?
And honestly, why the fuck did he care?
He didn’t. Hecouldn’t.
He wouldn’t pretend he didn’t care about Bailey. He did. She was his friend, and he wanted the best for her. A fly-by-night writer wasn’t something she needed. The man had all but told Rafe he didn’t put down roots because his craft allowed him to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Rafe hadn’t needed an engraved invitation to see himself out.
So why the fuck was Holt here?
Rafe tried not to stare, but it wasn’t easy. When Holt walked in, people noticed. Some because he wasn’t a familiar face around these parts. Others because he had one of those faces that required you to do a double take. To say the man was handsome was an understatement. He had a movie star vibe about him that drew people in, and when he spoke, people listened. At one time, Rafe had been one of those people.
Not tonight.
“Is anyone sitting here?” Holt asked one of the old timers bellied up to the bar.
The man glanced over, his expression reflecting his irritation until he saw Holt. How the man could shift a mood with merely a smile, Rafe would never know.
“Nah. All yours.”
“Thanks.” Holt took a seat on the stool. “Any chance you’ve got a single malt back there?”
Rafe retrieved the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label from the top shelf and held it up for Holt to see. It wasn’t single malt, but it was the best they had.
“Make it a double.” He tapped the bar near the old timer’s beer. “And put this guy’s beer on my tab.”
Retrieving a tumbler, Rafe added a large ice cube and poured, giving his full attention to making the drink, although he could do it in his sleep. It was better than looking at the man who’d sent Rafe’s world into a death spiral at a point when he thought his life was finally moving in the right direction.
When he set the glass in front of Holt, the man passed over his credit card with a mumbled, “Thanks.”
They were busier than usual, nearly at capacity, thanks to all the stragglers who’d relocated here from the park. It ensured Rafe didn’t have time to chat with Holt or any of the other patrons who’d managed to sidle up to the bar. For a solid hour, he worked to make drinks—evidently, music in the park meant specialty cocktails all around—and keep the waitress’ trays full while Mack manned the fryer in the back, cooking up French fries and onion rings, now that they were out of chicken wings.
But as they said, all good things must come to an end because, at 1:45A.M., Mack yelled, “Last call.”
The few minutes that followed weren’t nearly enough, and before he knew it, Rafe was closing things up while Holt remained sitting at the bar. At that point, ignoring him was futile, but Rafe wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.
“All right,” Mack said when he emerged from the kitchen. “All cleaned up in—”
When he stopped mid-sentence, Rafe peered over at him.
Mack turned his attention to Holt. “Sorry, man. We’re shuttin’ it down for the night.”
“He’s with me,” Rafe said grudgingly.
Holt took that as a reason to introduce himself to Mack. They shook hands, and before their palms separated, Mack realized who he was.
“My husband’s gonna shit bricks when he realizes you’re in town.”
Holt grinned. “Doesn’t sound comfortable.”
Mack barked a laugh. “Probably not. But you’re in his top three favorite authors of all time list.”
