“Busy,” I answered honestly. “But it’s good to be home for a bit.”
“Home has a way of pulling you back.” Kellan’s gaze softened as he looked at his wife. “Sometimes what you’re looking for is right in front of you the whole time.”
Diego appeared at my side, our shoulders brushing as he reached for a bottle of tequila. The contact sent a warm jolt through me.
“Looks like Austen and Clint are having a good time.” He nodded toward the dance floor.
I followed his gaze to see Austen MacAvoy twirling under Clint Ramsey’s arm, both of them laughing. I hadn’t really known Clint much beyond reputation. He and Austen’s brother, Rhett, had been big high school football stars in their day. Apparently there’d been some best friend’s baby sister romance action there since I’d been away.
“Remember when we used to dance like that?” Diego’s voice was a quiet rumble just for me. I shivered as it stroked over my skin like a physical touch.
The question hung between us, loaded with memories. Summers under string lights in this very bar. His hands on my waist, my head on his shoulder. The way we’d move together like we’d been dancing our whole lives.
“I remember.” I watched the couples on the floor with a pang of something like longing.
Lucy caught my eye from where she’d settled with Cord at a corner table, her expression curious. I gave her a quick smile and turned back to the waiting customers, but as the band kicked off for the night with a rousing rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama,” my mind stayed on the music, on memories, and on the man working beside me who fit so seamlessly into my world—then and seemingly now.
I poured three tequila shots in quick succession, lining them up with the salt and lime wedges before sliding them across the bar. The Jacksons—town basketball coach and his wife—cheeredand clinked glasses with their visiting son, who’d just gotten into med school. Another milestone celebrated in these walls.
My gaze drifted to the dance floor where couples moved in easy synchronicity. Austen’s head was thrown back in laughter as Clint twirled her. Lucy and Cord swayed together, foreheads touching, lost in their own world. Even old Mr. and Mrs. Pelletier, who had to be pushing eighty, were shuffling along to the band’s country cover of an eighties love song.
When was the last time I’d danced like that? Or done anything purely for the enjoyment of it?
I mentally flipped through my calendar of the past year. Client dinners at fancy restaurants, where conversation revolved around term sheets and due diligence. Networking events with lukewarm chardonnay and calculated small talk. The holiday party where my team celebrated closing the Franklin acquisition by drinking expensive bourbon and immediately checking our phones for the next crisis.
Fun wasn’t factored into my five-year plan. It was something I’d have time for later—after partner, after I’d proven myself, after I’d earned my place at the table.
“Whiskey sour?” Diego appeared at my elbow, breaking my reverie with a half-empty ice bucket.
“Right.” I snapped back to the present, grabbing the bottle of Maker’s. “Two of them for table six.”
Our hands brushed as I passed him the finished drinks, and a spark traveled from my fingertips straight to my core—the same electric current that had been snapping between us all night. The simple contact made my breath catch, made me hyperaware of every inch of space between us. My chest ached with a longing for something I wasn’t ready to admit, something that threatened to unravel the carefully constructed walls I’d built around my life.
Diego’s dark eyes searched my face, those warm brown depths seeing far more than I was comfortable with. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just...” I gestured vaguely toward the crowd moving to the music, my voice softer than I intended. “Thinking about things. About how different this all feels.”
The weight of unspoken words hung between us, heavy with possibility and memory. He looked at me like he could see straight through the polished corporate facade to the girl who used to spend summer nights in his arms.
Diego nodded slowly, understanding flickering across his features, but he didn’t push. He never had been one to force conversations before they were ready to happen. Instead, he grabbed a stack of empty glasses, his movements deliberately casual. “I’ll give you some space to think.” He headed toward the washer with that easy grace that had always made my pulse quicken.
I mixed another round of drinks, my muscle memory taking over. The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this present, this alive. Every corporate victory came with another expectation, another rung to climb. Every achievement was immediately overshadowed by the next target. The only times I’d felt anything close to this were those scattered moments of triumph—winning a difficult negotiation, being tasked as lead on an important contract. But those highs were fleeting, immediately replaced by the next deadline.
Here, despite the chaos and the physical demands, I was connected to something real. The weight of a glass in my hand. The genuine smiles of people I’d known my whole life. Being a part of celebrations and milestones that my big-city peers and colleagues would consider nothing at all.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked it quickly. Not work, just a text from Doc asking if I needed him to come in. I replied with a firm no and told him to go to bed.
I turned back to see Diego balancing four pint glasses between his hands, pouring draft beer with shocking ease.
I arched an eyebrow. “Showing off?”
“Impressing the locals.” He winked. “They tip better.”
I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in days. Possibly years.
The band transitioned to a cover of “Wagon Wheel,” and half the bar erupted in cheers, several more couples joining the dance floor. I felt a pang of something—not quite envy, but recognition of something missing.
You could have this,a voice whispered in my head.A life with moments like these.
