“Alaina freakin’ Southland,” he crows, arms wide as the moon. “Still breaking hearts behind the bar, or have you finally run off with some galaxy pirate?”
I smirk, throwing a towel over my shoulder. “Only pirates I deal with now steal lollipops and throw tantrums.”
He throws his head back laughing, smooth as synth-silk. “Tell me there’s a story behind that.”
“There’s atoddlerbehind that,” I shoot back, pouring a drink with practiced flair. “Named him after a dead poet and a stubborn streak.”
He slides onto a stool like he owns it.
“You look good,” he says, eyes raking me in a way that used to make me blush. Now it just prickles.
“Flattery gets you watered-down ale and a lecture on my day job,” I say, pouring him one anyway.
“What if I like lectures?”
“You always liked trouble more.”
“Still do.”
Out the corner of my eye, I see Troka.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Watching.
His golden gaze slices through the crowd, through me. There’s heat there. Jealousy. But also… hurt. Deep and blistering.
Levi follows my gaze, then whistles. “Well, damn. You always did have a type.”
“Big, broody, and emotionally unavailable?” I mutter.
He grins. “I was gonna say tall.”
Troka doesn’t move.
Not when Levi clinks glasses with me.
Or when Levi leans close to whisper some joke about the bartender uniform being a “tactical distraction.”
Not even when I laugh. A real laugh—sharp and sudden and a little cruel because I know who’s listening.
Later, I’m wiping down the bar when I feel the shift in the air.
Troka’s voice is low but tight. “That's your ex?”
“No,” I say flatly. “Friend.”
“It looked like more than that.”
I meet his eyes, challenge bubbling up. “Why? You keeping tabs now?”
“You were flirting.”
I slam the rag onto the counter. “You don’t get to police my conversations, Troka.”
He leans in, voice rough. “I’m not policing. I’m asking.”
“Then ask better.”
He exhales hard, nostrils flaring. “What are we doing, Alaina?”
