I watched her transform before my eyes—the easy, comfortable bartender replaced by someone else entirely. Even her voice changed, taking on the polished edge of corporate America.
She disappeared into the office, but not before I caught the tension in her shoulders.
Tomorrow was Saturday. She’d have a full shift tonight, in a bar that wouldn’t close until midnight. When exactly was she supposed to get to whatever revisions she was being tasked with?
Twitch waved a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Paladin.”
I blinked, turning back to the table. “What?”
“You’re staring,” Donkey said. “Again.”
I was saved from responding when our food arrived—thick, juicy burgers with all the fixings and a mountain of perfectly crispy fries—but my eyes kept drifting toward the closed office door like a magnet. Something about her sudden shift bothered me more than I wanted to admit. The way she’d gone from relaxed and teasing, that familiar spark in her green eyes, to wound-tight and professional in the span of a heartbeat. It was like watching someone flip a switch and become an entirely different person.
The transformation had been so complete, so practiced, that it made me wonder how often she did it. How many times a day did Gillian Holliday disappear behind the polished mask of corporate attorney Gillian?
Something uncomfortable coiled in my chest, a knot of worry and frustration that I had no business feeling. She was running herself ragged—I saw it now that I was looking for it. The fatigue in the subtle shadows under her eyes that makeup didn’t quite hide, the tension that lived in her shoulders when she thought no one was looking, the way her movements had that careful precision of someone operating on too little sleep and too much caffeine.
I wanted to tell her to slow down, to take a breath, that pushing herself this hard wasn’t be sustainable. The words sat heavy on my tongue, born from four years of missing her and practically four minutes of seeing her again. But I caught myself before the thought fully formed, before it turned into something I might actually voice. That wasn’t my place anymore. I’d lost the right to that kind of concern years ago when she’d chosen her path toward law school and corporate success, and I’d stayed behind on mine, content with my life in Huckleberry Creek.
She’d made her choice. I’d made mine. And whatever was happening to her now—the late-night revisions, the stress, the way she was burning her candle at both ends—that was her life. Not mine to worry about.
Moose watched me watch the office door. “Now what’s turning that smile upside down?”
I turned back to my half-eaten burger. “Eat your food.”
“What is it with you and redheads?” Twitch leaned forward, his leg bouncing under the table. “You never even look at women when we go out, but five minutes with her and you’re practically glowing.”
Donkey snorted. “Man, you were staring at her at the picnic like she was the only person there.”
“Eat. Your. Food.” My voice flattened, but they just laughed, completely unfazed.
“Fine, keep your secrets.” Moose stole one of my fries. “But whatever’s going on between you two is about as subtle as a five-alarm fire.”
The office door swung open, and Gillian emerged, tucking her phone away. She was back in bartender mode, but the transition wasn’t quite as smooth as before—stress lingered around her eyes, in the tightness of her smile.
She slid back behind the bar, grabbed a pitcher of water, and made her way back to our table.
“Sorry about that.” She refilled our glasses. “Corporate America waits for no one, not even medical emergencies.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Was her boss giving her shit about the fact that she had extra responsibilities here at home because of Doc’s TIA? “Your boss sounds charming.”
“Oh, he’s a peach.” She rolled her eyes, and just like that, we were back in sync—the easy rhythm we’d always had, like finishing each other’s sentences without trying.
“Gillian!” someone called from across the room. “Can we get another round over here?”
“Be right there!” She turned back to us. “Duty calls. Let me know if you need anything else.”
The sharp pull in my chest as the walked away wasn’t nostalgia. Wasn’t the ghost of what we’d been before. This was current, immediate. Present-tense want that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with the woman she’d become. The strength of the pull caught me off guard—how easily we’d fallen back into our own private orbit despite all the time and distance between us.
The way she’d looked at me when she rolled her eyes about her boss—like we were conspirators sharing a secret joke—had stirred something I’d thought I’d buried for good. That spark of connection, the sense that we understood each other in ways that didn’t require explanation.
“See?” Twitch whispered, his voice barely audible above the bar’s ambient noise. “That’s the face. That right there.”
I turned to find all three of them watching me with varying degrees of amusement. Donkey was grinning like he’d just solved a particularly satisfying puzzle, while Moose looked torn between curiosity and concern.
I didn’t bother denying it this time. What was the point? Some things couldn’t be hidden, no matter how hard you tried, and apparently my feelings for Gillian Holliday fell squarely into that category.
She moved through the crowded bar, doing the job, stopping to chat with locals at their tables, laughing at their jokes and taking their orders. But beneath it all, I saw the cracks in the performance. The way she’d glance toward the office door where she’d taken that call, or how her fingers would drift to the phone in her back pocket. The occasional furrow between her brows when she thought no one was looking, like she was trying to solve an equation with too many variables.
