“Some people need that long,” Diego said, his voice softer. “Others figure out what they want a lot sooner.”
Our eyes met briefly before we both looked away, the weight of unspoken history hanging between us.
“Shots for the birthday girl!” I announced, pushing thoughts of the past aside as I delivered the tray to a raucous table in the corner.
When I returned, Diego was flipping bottles with unexpected flair, drawing cheers from the crowd at the bar.
“When did you learn to do that?” I laughed, genuinely impressed.
“Firefighter talent show. Don’t ask.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
For the next hour, we moved around each other in a rhythm as familiar as breathing. Reaching past one another for bottles, sliding drinks down the bar, calling orders back and forth. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much fun—certainly not in any boardroom or during late-night contract reviews.
At some point, I realized I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. My laptop sat closed in the office, work emails unopened. And I didn’t care.
“You’re smiling,” Diego observed during a rare quiet moment as we restocked glasses.
“Am I?”
“Haven’t stopped all night.” He paused, his eyes meeting mine. “It looks good on you.”
Heat crept up my neck. “This is fun,” I admitted. “I forgot how much I love this place.”
“The bar?” he asked, but something in his expression told me he was asking about more than Doc’s Saloon.
Before I could answer, someone shouted for another round, and we were back in motion.
“How about those Bears, huh? You think they’ve got a shot at state this year?” Old Mr. Pelletier leaned against the bar, his weathered face creased in a smile.
I slid his beer across the polished wood, grateful that Doc took the time to keep me updated on local events, even while I was in Chicago. “With Coach Miller’s new offense? Absolutely.”
Mr. Pelletier gestured to his buddy. “That’s what I told Henry, but he ain’t convinced.”
“Gillian Holliday! Look at you, mixologist extraordinaire!” The familiar voice pulled my attention to the entrance.
I looked up to see Lucy and Cord making their way through the crowded room. Lucy’s face lit up with delight as she hurried over. I ducked under the pass thru to accept a fierce hug from her.
“Hey, stranger. I haven’t seen you since you dropped off that lasagna.”
“I know I’m the worst friend. Between work and Liam starting baseball and—” She glanced back at Cord, who winkedat her. “—other distractions, I’ve been terrible about checking in.”
“How’s Doc doing?” Cord’s arms slid around Lucy’s waist with an enviable intimacy.
“Better. Fighting the doctor’s orders every step of the way.” I mixed Lucy’s usual cranberry vodka without having to ask. “But Mrs. Woodley’s got him under surveillance tonight.”
Lucy wiggled her eyebrows. “Ooh, Mrs. Woodley, huh? That’s still happening?”
“Apparently, it’s been happening for months.” I glanced at Diego, who was serving customers at the other end of the bar. “Someone’s been holding out on me.”
“Speaking of holding out...” Lucy’s gaze followed mine to Diego, then back to me with curiosity. “You two seem... comfortable.”
I busied myself with garnishing her drink. Lucy had no idea about my history with Diego. She’d already been married to Liam’s father—the asshat who shall not be named—by the time we’d gotten together. The next time I’d seen her, I’d already chosen law school over love.
“He offered to help out tonight.” I lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’ve been running on fumes all week.”
Before Lucy could press further, the door swung open again, and in walked Kellan and Tate Fox, hand in hand and laughing about something. I remembered hearing about their story—business partners who’d faked an engagement for some reason and ended up falling for real. The gossip mill in Huckleberry Creek never stopped.
“Gillian!” Tate made her way to the bar. “I heard you were back. How’s the big city treating you?”
