“I know what you think, and it’s not like that.”
As soon as I saw Jake watching us at the bar, I felt guilty—for doing absolutely nothing—and thanked Blaze for the beer and told him I’d see him later. Jake let me finish my drink but wasn’t interested in staying much longer after that. The drive home has been awkward to say the least. Just because this wasn’t a real date to me doesn’t mean it wasn’t to him, and I had no right to let some other guy get me all hot and bothered while another man paid for my dinner. Even if it was a little unconventional.
He takes his eyes off the road and turns to search my face. “What is it like, then?”
“Jake, don’t.”
Headlights from an oncoming SUV light up the cabin of his car, so he turns his focus back to the road. “I’m just curious.”
Minutes later, he pulls up to the curb in front of my building and puts the car in park. His hand reaches across the middle console and lands on my knee. He lets his thumb trace circles over the top of my kneecap before sliding his hand up to my thigh. So, this what dating is like now? A few sliders and a couple of beers and he’s leaning in for the kill.
I place my hand on top of his and move it back to his own lap. “I meant it when I said this isn’t a thing.” I owed him a date, and I gave him one. That’s where it ends. I exhale a shaky sigh and look him in the eye. Even though it would be so easy to go there with him, it’s not like that with Jake. He wants way more from me than I can give. So, why is this so hard? Because you don’t like letting people down. It’s the truth. That’s the only reason I ever agreed to this night to begin with, but I’m not going to lie to him or give him false hope. “We can be friends, but I’m just not ready for anything else right now.”
Seconds tick past before he finally replies. Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can put my finger on it. “Well, when you decide to be ready, I’ll be here.”
What was that? Did I just witness the soft side of the impenetrable Jake Grimes?
I let go of his hand to extend mine out to him. “Friends?”
He locks his hand with mine, gripping it with a solid shake. “Friends.”
I open the door and start to climb out, and I swear I hear him mumble under his breath, “For now.”
When we were in college, Hector’s girlfriend had this habit of writing quotes on the bathroom mirror in her lipstick. I guess it was her way of making us feel better when we woke up hungover as shit. According to her, Mark Twain once said: “Never regret anything that made you smile.”
It’s been two days since I saw Adrienne at Shooters, and I still can’t get her off my mind. Her face. That mouth. Those hips. The look on the douchebag’s face when he looked across the bar and saw her with me. Nope. I don’t regret a fucking thing.
“What are you smiling at?” Liam asks, dragging me away from remembering how it felt to finally touch her, even if it was only for half a second. He looks side-to-side and over his shoulder to see if anyone else is around.
He’s shoveling piles of ash and splinters of wood into a steel barrel. I gave Hector the day off. No one is here but the two of us. One more day of this shit and we should be able to start cleaning up the inside. They got rid of all the water, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get rid of the smell.
I bend over and grab a piece of stray tin to carry to the dumpster. “Just thinking what a good job you’re doing,” I lie.
“You think Miss M will be proud?” Looks like I’m not the only one she’s made an impression on. A brown curl falls over his forehead, and he tries to blow it away. It’s damp with sweat, so it doesn’t move. Instead, it just sticks to his eyebrow.
“Definitely.”
His entire face lights up all the way to his emerald green eyes. He packs the pile of ash and debris into the barrel with the back of the shovel. Not gonna lie, the kid works hard. He hasn’t complained one time since he’s been here. He also hasn’t brought up the night of the fire or what made him do it, but something tells me there’s more to that story than a young kid playing a prank on a random business. One day I’ll learn his secrets. Right now, it’s just good to see him smile. I know how he feels. She makes me smile too.
How long has it been since a woman has genuinely made me smile?
Way too fucking long. I almost forgot what it felt like. Hector was right. If I died tomorrow, I’d bet my ass my headstone would read: Here lies the broodiest motherfucker that ever lived.
I toss the sheet of tin into the dumpster and go back to grab the barrel from Liam. “Last barrel for the day. Then we’ll wash up and I’ll get you home.”
That’s the deal I made with Adrienne this morning. She drops him off. I’ll bring him home.
I shouldn’t. I should let her pick him up the way Brody does. The way the blonde does. I should let her pull into the parking lot and wait in her car until Liam climbs into the passenger seat. Then I should wave and watch them drive away. But I don’t. I bring him home.
Because I don’t want to go another three days without standing close enough to smell the coconut body wash she uses or watch the way her pulse thrums in that little dip at the bottom of her throat every time I look at her.
Because I’m slowly but surely losing the battle between what I should do and what I want to do.
Because this woman makes me want things I’m not supposed to have, things I don’t deserve.
Every night, I watch from behind the bar as other people live their lives. They flirt. They dance. They kiss. They touch. Once upon a time, I was one of those lucky people. Too bad once is all we get. There is no redemption, no second chances at a one-of-a-kind love. I met the love of my life when I was ten years old, right after I lost my best friend. Three years ago, I lost her too, with no one to blame but myself. I’ve spent all my time since then building a wall—no, a motherfucking fortress—around myself to make sure no one else gets in. Or that I don’t get out. This is my pain. I earned it. There is no reprieve. I’m not even sure I want one.
And still, here I am going out of my way for a whiff of coconut fucking body wash.
The car ride is quiet except for the Top 40 station playing on the radio. Not really my thing, but I’m driving down the Interstate with a fifteen-year-old boy who probably wouldn’t know who Leon Bridges is if he jumped out in front of us.
Gritty.
Deep.
Raw.
That’s what music is supposed to be. It’s supposed to speak to your soul when your mind can’t find the words. It’s supposed to be real. That’s why I commission indie artists to play at the brewery every week instead of paying a DJ. It’s why I brew my own beer instead of putting on a suit and tie for my father every day. It’s why no matter how many women lean over my bar, flashing cleavage and sliding me their number, I always go home alone.
Keep your bullshit. Give me real.
“You like her, don’t you?”
I turn down the volume on the stereo to make sure I heard Liam right. “Who?” I ask, even though I know damn well who he’s talking about.
“Miss M.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You only bring me home when she’s there.”