“Reed! Reed, oh my GOD—Layla is here!” Catalina’s chestnut eyes are wide as her manicured hand claps over her mouth. “She’s finally here!”
My world stutters.
I freeze, the rag limp in my hand, chest tight as though all the air’s been sucked from the room.
My pulse ticks erratically, my nerves spiking like electricity under my skin. For a second, I can’t move. The laughter, the clink of glasses, and the noise of Boots & Bourbon all blur into each other.
She’s here.
And suddenly, I’m not the steady, quiet bartender anymore. I’m just a man with scars crawling up his skin and butterflies tearing through his stomach, wondering what the hell she’s going to think when she sees me again.
layla
. . .
My driver slows to the curb in front of Boots & Bourbon, the bar I’ve visited a handful of times when I came to see Catalina many moons ago. I tighten my bag against my side, gripping the strap tightly, something to hold onto as my nerves surge through me.
“Thanks,” I say, handing him a folded bill.
He nods, smiling, and I step out onto the cracked sidewalk.
The red neon sign above the door buzzes faintly in the early evening light.
Windows glow with a soft tinge of terra-cotta, promising warmth, noise, and maybe even a distraction. Catalina and Amelia had told me to get here immediately.
They all live there or something, I don’t fucking know.
Taking a long, deep breath, I push through the heavy wooden door, and the atmosphere hits me immediately.
The intertwining smells of whiskey and polished oak smack me in the face first. Warm light spills from Edison bulbs strung across the ceiling, catching on the rows ofmulticolored bottles behind the bar, amber liquid glowing beneath the dim lights.
Boots scrape against wood as people laugh, talk too loudly, and clap each other on the back. The low hum of country music threads through it all, giving this place a warm, rustic feel.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I glance at the screen, and my stomach drops.
Brian
Don’t forget why you’re there. Content, Layla. YOU need to make us more money.
Bile rises fast, but I don’t answer. I click my phone on do not disturb and shove it deep into my bag. Lifting my chin higher, I take another step inside, canvassing the bar, looking for my best friends.
My eyes scan the patrons, laughing and drinking their beer, their voices colliding, until they lock onto the bar, and there he is.
Reed’s behind the bar, rag in hand, broad shoulders under a burnt-yellow flannel. The sleeves are pulled down, covering his arms, but from here I can see a glimpse of the scar tissue on the left side of his face, dipping down into the collar of his flannel.
My gaze lingers on the edge of ink there too—tattoo lines I can’t quite make out, disappearing beneath the fabric.
He’s wearing glasses now. They catch the light when he tilts his head, framing those sharp features that haven’t dulled in the slightest. His dark brown hair is longer than I remember, brushed back but a little tousled, and the beard-mustache combo only makes his jaw look more chiseled, more striking.
God, I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten how handsome he was, devastatingly so. The attractiveness that makes your chest stutter and your throat go dry all at once.
My heart trips, stumbling over itself.
Reed continues wiping a glass until his eyes finally look up to lock onto mine.
Oh my God.
His eyes lock onto mine across the crowded room. The chatter of the bar drops out, silence rushing in like a wave, and it’s just him, staring at me like nothing else around him matters.
