I shut that thought down immediately. I wasn’t staying. I couldn’t stay. Less than a week left, then back to reality, back to the promotion I’d been working toward for years. Back to the life I’d chosen.
But as I watched Diego charm the table of middle-aged women by the window, his smile easy and genuine, another thought surfaced:What if the life you’ve chosen isn’t choosing you back?
I shook my head, focusing on the customer in front of me. I didn’t have the luxury of existential questions right now. The bar was still three-deep with thirsty patrons; Diego was waiting for the gin I needed to pass him; and somewhere in Chicago, a desk piled with contracts awaited my return.
For tonight, this was enough—the music, the laughter, the rhythm of the bar, and Diego’s steady presence beside me. Tomorrow’s questions could wait for tomorrow.
CHAPTER 12
DIEGO
“Last call!” I rang the brass bell behind the bar.
The crowd had thinned considerably, but a few diehards remained, nursing their drinks. The band was packing up their equipment, guitar cases snapping shut and amp cords being coiled. The lead singer gave me a thumbs up as he hefted a speaker toward the door.
Jamie emerged from the kitchen, untying his apron. “Kitchen’s clean. I’m heading out unless you need anything else?”
“We’re good.” Gillian counted out his tip share. “Thanks for staying late with that last burger order.”
“Not a problem.” He pocketed the money with a nod. “Good to have you behind the bar, Rivera. Doc’s trained you well.”
I smiled. “Just filling in where needed.”
Megan and Tyler, the two servers, finished wiping down their sections and joined us at the bar. Gillian pulled out four shot glasses and a bottle of Jameson.
“Tradition.” She poured a finger of whiskey into each glass. “Doc always says a good night deserves a proper toast.”
We clinked glasses, the amber liquid burning pleasantly as it went down. The servers said their goodbyes, and suddenly thebar was empty except for us. After hours of noise, the silence was heavy.
“Want me to lock up while you count the register?” I asked.
Gillian nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That would be great.”
I moved through the bar, checking the back door was secure, turning off the neon signs, and flipping chairs onto tables. I well knew that Huckleberry Creek had long since tucked in for the night.
When I returned, Gillian was finishing with the cash drawer, looking satisfied.
“Good night?” I asked.
“Seems like.” She rolled her shoulders. “My dogs are barking, though.”
I glanced down at her stylish ankle boots. “Those can’t be helping.”
“They’re not my usual courtroom heels, at least.” She smiled, and something loosened in my chest at the sight. She looked more relaxed than I’d seen her since she’d been back—tired around the edges, but her eyes were bright.
I leaned against the bar. “You looked like you were having fun tonight.”
“I was.” She sounded almost surprised by the admission. “I’d forgotten how much I enjoy this place. Not just the bar itself, but the people, the stories...” She trailed off, looking around the empty saloon with something like fondness. “It was nice to think about something other than contracts for a night.”
“Is it ever actually nice to think about contracts?” At her raised brow, I added, “That’s no shade on your profession. I just can’t wrap my brain around anybody finding that fun.”
Her lips quirked. “Says the man who runs into burning buildings for a living.”
“Touché.”
I grabbed the broom and started sweeping while she wiped down the bar. We worked in companionable silence, the only sound the soft swoosh of the broom and the occasional clink of glasses being carted back to the dishwasher.
The tension she’d been carrying since arriving in town had softened around her eyes and mouth. She looked more like the Gillian I remembered—the one who used to laugh freely under summer stars, who’d wake me at dawn to watch the sunrise from the overlook.
