He plays these mind games with me. Next, it’ll be a message saying how much he misses or loves me. Then, like a switch, he’ll be cruel, threatening, and hurting me with his words.
My focus snaps back to Reed.
He moves behind the bar with the same steady, methodical rhythm. The clink of glass against glass, the soft scrape of bottles sliding back into place. The neon sign out front casts a red glow through the windows, bathing everything in a gentle, muted maroon.
His shadow stretches long across the wooden floor, with broad shoulders outlined in warm illumination.
I’m still sitting at the bar with my chin propped in my hand, trying not to stew on Brian’s text while watching him instead.
He doesn’t talk much, but there’s something about watching him move that feels like its own kind of conversation. The looseness in his shoulders, the way his brow furrows when he’s counting bottles, the quiet focus that makes everything else fade away.
“Need help?” I finally ask because sitting still feels impossible.
He glances up, his eyes catching mine through the low light. “I’ve got it,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual, not a real no.
I slide off the barstool anyway. “You always say that like it’s a full sentence.”
“It is.”
I grin, walking around to the other side of the counter. “Too late, I’m helping.”
He watches me for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth arguing. Then he shakes his head, a faint smile curling around his lips. “Fine. Grab those receipts, and take ‘em to the office in the back.”
“On it.”
I grab the stack of receipts he has piled on the counter neatly, the sound of paper crunching beneath my fingertips. Pushing past the bar, I make my way to the dimly lit hallway, entering Reed’s office.
His office smells like him: oakmoss, whiskey, and faint traces of his cologne. The dark oak desk is neat except for a half-empty coffee cup and a few scattered papers. I set the receipts down on the corner of his desk, my fingers brushing against the worn leather blotter.
The low whir of the bar is distant from here, muffled behind the closed door.
I linger for a moment longer than I should. Maybe it’s curiosity, or perhaps I like being surrounded by him; the quiet, and the warmth that seems to hang in the air even when he’s not in the room.
Turning on my heel, I push open the wooden door and step back into the hallway, staring at my fingernails when I make it less than halfway before practically colliding into a wall of muscle.
Reed’s hands grip my waist, steadying me.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the sudden contact.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Finally, I open them, letting my gaze travel along his abs, broad chest, and massive shoulders until they meet his green eyes behind his glasses.
God, he’s so tall it’s unfair, really.
He’s already staring down at me as his jaw tightens, his eyes flicking from my lips to my throat, and for a moment, I think he’s going to close the distance. He doesn’t, but God, I wish he would.
He releases my waist, resting his hand on the wall beside him, and gazes down at me. The hallway light washes over his face, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
“Sorry,” I breathe, my voice wobbly. “Didn’t mean to?—”
“—run into me?” His mouth quirks, faintly.
He hesitates before he steps closer, as I try to move past him, but the space is too tight. The walls feel like they’re shrinking to just him and me, the faint smell of whiskey, the warmth radiating from his skin, and only the sound of our breathing.
“Guess we’ve got a hallway problem,” I mumble, smiling a little because I don’t know what else to do with all this tension.
“Guess so,” he says softly, taking off his glasses and tucking them in his back pocket.
