The comment stung more than it should have. I forced a smile and moved to the next customer, acutely aware of the laptop waiting in the office, of deadlines looming, of the fact that I couldn’t give one hundred percent to either world right now.
Despite everything swirling through my mind, I caught myself glancing at the door throughout the night, wondering if a certain firefighter might stop by. Each time the hinges creaked and someone new walked in, my pulse would quicken for just a moment before disappointment settled in my chest like a stone. Each time it happened, irritation surged.
Four years. Four damn years I’d managed to build a successful life without Diego Rivera cluttering up my thoughts. I’d graduated summa cum laude, landed a position at one of Chicago’s most prestigious firms, climbed the ladder rung by careful rung. I’d dated other men—smart, ambitious lawyers and business executives who understood my drive and respected my goals. I’d built something solid, something that made sense.
Four days back in Huckleberry Creek, surrounded by the familiar scent of beer and wood polish, listening to the same old jokes from the same old regulars, and I was already watchingdoors like some lovesick teenager waiting for her prom date to show up. It was pathetic, and worse than that, it was dangerous. These kinds of distractions were exactly what had nearly derailed me before.
The bar needed me present and focused. Doc needed me to keep his legacy running smoothly while he recovered. My career needed me sharp and dedicated, especially with the partnership decision looming on the horizon. If a tiny voice asked what it wasIneeded, I ignored it.
I didn’t have room for anything—or anyone—else. Not if I wanted to keep all the pieces of my carefully constructed life from falling apart.
“Gill! Table seven wants another pitcher!”
I jerked my head up from the laptop screen where I’d been squinting at paragraph sixteen of a liability clause. The shout yanked me back into the bar’s reality—laughter, clinking glasses, someone’s off-key singing to “Friends in Low Places” on the jukebox.
“Coming!” I slammed the laptop shut and hustled to the taps, grabbing a fresh pitcher.
As I filled it with amber liquid, my mind was still stuck on subsection C of that contract. The foam nearly overflowed before I caught myself and adjusted the angle. Jamie shot me a look.
“You with us tonight, counselor?” He slid a basket of wings onto the pass.
“Sorry. Just... multitasking.” I forced a bright smile, swiping the foam off the pitcher’s edge with a bar rag.
The next hour became a blur of motion. Between each task, my mind darted back to the half-edited contract waiting in the office. It was like trying to ride two horses going in opposite directions—I was giving just enough to both to keep moving, but not enough to make realy progress on either.
“How’s Doc doing?” Mrs. Henderson asked as I dropped off her whiskey sour.
“Ornery as ever.” I laughed. “The doctor said he needs rest, but he’s already planning his jailbreak from the couch.”
The questions came all night. Everyone in this town seemed to know about Doc’s “episode,” as they were calling it. Their concern was genuine, which made it impossible to resent the constant interruptions.
Back behind the bar, I slid a bourbon neat to Joe Ratliff, one of Doc’s oldest friends. The familiar weight of the glass in my hand grounded me for a moment.
“You look beat, kid,” Joe observed.
“I’m fine.” I flashed what I hoped was a convincing smile.
“You working yourself like your grandpa?” His eyes were knowing. “Man never did know when to take a breath.”
The comment hit harder than it should have. Was that what I was doing? Burning myself at both ends just like Doc? The irony wasn’t lost on me—trying to keep his bar running while he recovered from working too hard in the same damn place.
I couldn’t give a hundred percent to both jobs tonight. Something was going to get shorted—either the contract that could determine my future, or the bar that had shaped my past.
CHAPTER 8
DIEGO
I pushed through the swinging doors of Doc Holliday’s with Moose, Twitch, and Donkey trailing behind me. The familiar smell of fried food and beer hit me like a welcome home. Country music played low from the jukebox, and the dinner crowd filled the place with comfortable chatter.
“Man, I’m starving.” Moose bumped into a chair as we made our way to an empty table.
I hadn’t suggested coming here. Twitch had mentioned burgers while we were washing down the trucks, and that was all it took for Donkey to launch into his usual passionate dissertation about Doc’s legendary onion rings—how they were hand-cut daily, beer-battered to golden perfection, and served with some secret aioli that would make a grown man weep. The decision was made before I voiced an opinion either way, swept along by the unanimous enthusiasm of my crew. Still, I couldn’t deny the magnetic pull I’d felt toward this place ever since finding out Gillian was back in town, like some invisible thread drawing me here.
The moment we stepped inside, my eyes found her instantly, as if they’d been programmed to seek her out. Behind the polished mahogany bar, that copper hair I remembered so wellcaught in a deliberately messy ponytail with a few rebellious strands framing her face. She moved with the same fluid efficiency she’d possessed back when we were younger—that graceful economy of motion that made every gesture look effortless, whether she was mixing drinks or simply reaching for glasses on the top shelf.
My heart gave a traitorous thump at the sight of her, that familiar kick against my ribs that reminded me how thoroughly she’d once turned my world upside down.
She spotted our group almost immediately, her professional smile spreading across the room like warmth from a fireplace. Welcoming, practiced, the kind of expression she’d probably perfected during countless shifts here. But then her eyes locked with mine across the crowded saloon, and everything shifted. That polished mask slipped just enough for a flicker of something warm and achingly familiar to pass between us—recognition, maybe relief, definitely something deeper than mere politeness. She almost looked... grateful to see me, as if my presence here meant something more than just another customer walking through those swinging doors.
