If I ever settle down, will it be with Wren? Will it be just as great?
When I push the door open, the low hum of voices hits me, the scent of charred ribs and hickory smoke threading through. I spot them immediately.
Beau’s in his usual jeans and a worn Henley, hair shoved back like he barely bothered, his stance loose but his focus sharp on the board. Simon’s beside him, sleeves rolled up, glasses catching the light, jaw tight like even a casual game requires surgical precision.
Beau lets his dart fly. It lands a good three inches off the bullseye. He curses, grabs his beer, and turns just as he notices me.
“Well, look who finally decided to show,” he drawls, grin tugging his mouth.
Simon glances at me over his shoulder, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and nods. “Evening.”
“Evening,” I return, lifting the paper bag in my hand. “Brought something.”
Beau eyes it suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“My mother insisted I don’t come empty-handed.” I drop into the chair nearest their little table. “Her lemon bars. And apple turnovers. Said the two of you look like you need feeding.”
Beau brightens instantly. “God bless your mother.” He snatches the bag, tearing it open like he hasn’t eaten in days.
Simon gives me a look that’s part gratitude, part long-suffering patience, before quietly helping himself to a turnover. “Tell her thank you.”
“I’ll let her know.” I take the empty stool, signaling the waitress for a whiskey. “She’ll be pleased.”
We linger at the dartboard a little longer. I play a round, land closer to the bullseye than Beau ever managed, and he curses me for it. Simon, of course, nails the center on his first throw and then pretends it was nothing.
Eventually, we migrate to one of the booths, red leather cracked in places, wood table scarred with initials carved by kids who thought they’d last forever.
Beers line the table; Beau’s already halfway through his second. Simon’s nursing a whiskey neat, and I take a long pull from mine, the burn steadying me.
Beau’s the one to break the silence, tapping his phone against the table. “So. The pop-up.”
“Yeah.” I glance at him. “What exactly does she mean by a booth?”
He shrugs. “Could be a booth to set up food. Could be like… a booth-booth. A table. Hell if I know.”
Simon sighs, precise even in frustration. “We should just ask her. Calling would clarify.”
“You call her, then,” Beau shoots back, smirking. “You’re the one she asked for at the clinic.”
My brows rise. “Clinic?”
Simon’s jaw ticks. He sets his glass down. “She came in. Had some scrapes. Asked for me specifically.”
Beau whistles low.
“Don’t start.” Simon leans back against the booth. “She needed a check-up. I did my job.”
The silence stretches just long enough that Beau can’t help himself. He smirks wider. “So… did you?”
Simon exhales sharply, staring at the ceiling like he’s counting backward from ten. “Yes. I made her come.”
The table goes quiet.
My chest tightens, heat curling in my gut, but I force my voice even. “You what?”
His gaze flicks to mine, steady, unflinching. “She was in pain. Overstimulated. She asked. I… helped.”
Beau laughs, low and rough. “You lucky bastard.”
