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I wait until almost closing time to show up at the bar, hoping she’ll be working tonight. I’m fully prepared to return the next night, but she is behind the bar when I get there.
I’m puzzled—so far, she hasn’t had a day off on any of the days I’ve surprised her with my presence.
Then I notice the man sitting at the bar. Sofia leans on the counter, letting her cleavage bulge—a move I recognize as her heavy flirting.
My chest tightens with a scorching fire I can’t tame. Does she flirt with anything that moves?
I put the hood of my sweater over my head, hoping to avoid recognition by the man, and storm up to the bar. I practically yell my order. “A beer, please,” I hiss. “When you get a moment,” I add.
Sofia flinches at my bark and blinks rapidly when she realizes who I am. “One second,” she says to the man and walks over to my spot. “What are you doing here?” she asks and crosses her arms. She clearly has no intention of getting me the requested beer.
“I wanted to talk to you. I don’t like how we left things.”
“I don’t either—”
“But then I get here, and you’re offering yourself up on platter for—”
Sofia chuckles bitterly. “Oh, this is rich. I never thought I’d see the day I’d be slut-shamed by a rock star who has undoubtedly fucked thousands.”
My nostrils flare as I try to think of a response. I have no comeback because...she’s right. Not only am I slut-shaming her, I’m being a complete hypocrite.
Our attention momentarily lapses when a woman joins the man at the bar and sits next to him. It’s then that I notice his wedding band in a gold that matches the band on the woman’s ring finger.
My gaze returns to Sofia’s face only to find her staring, her gaze darting between the couple and me. I open my mouth to speak, to apologize, but she holds up one finger. “Hold on. Let me get rid of them. I don’t want round two of our fight to be witnessed by customers.”
I listen as Sofia offers to buy their last round in apology, then closes out their tab. The couple leaves the bar looking a bit stiff, and I don’t know what turned their moods sour.
“I’m sorry. Here I am being an ass again,” I say when we’re alone at last. Sofia locks the door before shutting off the ‘Open’ sign.
“Yeah. You’re being an ass.”
“I was jealous,” I admit.
“Jealous?”
“Yeah. I didn’t realize he was here with someone, and I thought you were flirting, I—I’m sorry, I assumed—”
“You assumed right, Bren. I was flirting,” Sofia says.
SEVEN
Sofia
He rears back, and his eyes narrow. “With a married man? Have you no shame?”
“Who the hell do you think you are? I owe you no explanations,” I say to Bren. I can’t believe him. My blood is boiling with fury because I hate possessive assholes. In large part, I know deep down that a big part of me avoiding serious relationships like the plague is a severe aversion to feeling like property . . . like I’m being owned.
I’ve known men like that in my life. From what I hear, my father was that way with my mother, and that didn’t end well. My friend Sara’s boyfriend was a possessive asshole, which led to his laying his hands on her.
The list goes on and on. If that’s what it means to be in a serious relationship, to be the property of another to claim whenever they chose, then I want no part in it.
“Are you telling me you’ve never not once fucked a married woman?” I challenge Bren, who is looking like he wants to break something.
He averts his eyes. “I, um—” he starts to say, but I can’t take it anymore.
“And not that it’s any of your business, but I wouldn’t take a married person to bed without their spouse’s consent. I do have a moral code, not that you would know anything about that.”
He seems flabbergasted. “What—”
