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“Don’t be like that, sugar,” he says, stepping up behind us.
Anxiety ripples off Mags and I get the sense Lena is trying to flag down someone from the bar.
Why can’t we enjoy a night out without the guys and not get badgered, for crying out loud?
I rise from my stool and take two steps away from the table, away from my friends. I deal with more disgruntled people than they do. Somehow, I will get this guy to leave.
“One,” I say and hold up a finger, “don’t call me sugar.”
He shuffles closer. “You know you like it… sugar.”
I roll my eyes. “Two, if a woman doesn’t invite you to her table, don’t come over. We’re here for the food and music and nothing more.”
He reaches out and takes hold of my arm. I try to pull out of his hold, but he tightens his grip. “Only ’cause you’ve never had a real man. I’ve seen you flirting in your little apron. Come on, sugar.” His lip curls and the air around me goes cold.
My eyes scan the room, searching for Denny or any of the other bar staff. But before I find any of them, I land on a pair of seething amber eyes near the door. Before I can mouthhelp me, he barges through the tables and small crowd in front of the stage. In three erratic breaths, Braydon steps up behind the man, grabs his bicep and tears him away.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” he bites out as he steps between us.
Drunk Man stumbles back and holds up his hands in surrender. “Whoa, man. I didn’t do shit. She came on to me. Was flaunting her cleavage—”
Thwack.The man staggers back a few steps and bumps into a table. Braydon curls and straightens his fingers as he shakes out his hand.
“What the hell is going on here?” Denny asks as he runs over to us.
Drunk Man opens his mouth, but I beat him to the punch. “Guy was harassing us. Braydon stepped in when he wouldn’t back down.”
Denny pats Braydon on the shoulder. “No fighting in the bar, man.” He gives Braydon a sympathetic smile. “But I appreciate you looking out for the ladies.” He tips his head to Braydon’s hand. “I’ll get you some ice.” Denny twists to face Drunk Man, his smile gone as he points toward the door. “As for you, get the hell out of here.”
A few patrons help Denny shuffle the man to the door. Every set of eyes in the bar watching, the crowd parting and the band playing a little quieter. Drunk Guy shouts, “I’ll destroy you.” Then he is out the door, and it is as if the volume dial gets cranked back up and life in the bar resumes.
I twist and take in the man in front of me, knuckles red and swollen, chest heaving. He looks the same, maybe a bit more haggard—dark circles under his eyes and a bone-tired wilt to his frame, like me—but very much the man I remember. Brown locks long enough to grab a decent fistful. Black-framed glasses accentuating his fiery amber irises. A layer of stubble on his angular jaw, a bit thicker than when I last saw him. And the scar in his eyebrow that says he has lived a little.
A storm brews beneath my diaphragm at the sight of him. A whirling uproar. A chaotic commotion slowly expanding and spreading and swallowing me whole. Beckoning me forward. Edging me near the cliff. Begging me to jump, to fall.
And god, I love how alive he makes me feel. But damn, am I terrified of what happens if I take the leap.
At every turn, I fight my feelings for Braydon, but I have missed him on an unhealthy level.
“What’re you doing here?”
His eyes stay on his hand as he continues to bend and flex his fingers. Closing his eyes, he sucks in a lungful of air, holds it for one, two, three seconds, then releases it and lifts his gaze to mine. Hundreds of unspoken words fester in his amber irises. Pin me in place and steal my breath. They are words we both refuse to give a voice. Emotions we refuse to declare, to own, to give life. Because the moment we do, there is no going back.
Pink colors his cheeks as he looks over my shoulder. No doubt, Mags and Lena are watching our exchange. Ready to step in and steer me out the door if need be.
“I, uh…” He hangs his head and rubs the back of his neck. “I messaged you online,” he says, voice barely audible over the noise of the bar.
He shifts from foot to foot while I remain tight lipped. I toy with the hem of my shirt as I wait for him to look up. For our eyes to reconnect and spill all the confessions our lips refuse to speak.
As if he hears my thoughts, his hand falls away and he straightens. Uncertainty clouds his amber irises as they hold me prisoner. Braydon may not be a man of many words, but his eyes, his expression, the way he carries himself speaks volumes.
I shuffle forward and wince. “Sorry. I’m really bad at checking messages.”
One confession each and the air around us shifts. Lightens. Charges. Vibrates.
“Promise I wasn’t creepy.” He lifts a hand and scratches the scar in his brow. A ragged chuckle spills from his lips. “I mean, I did look at the account every day, but I’m not some weird sycophant.” His brows tug down as his lips stretch into a thin line. “Maybe I should shut up.”
Fear widens his eyes when I don’t respond right away. He nibbles the corner of his bottom lip as his eyes dart between mine. And as he opens his mouth to say something else, I laugh. Hard and loud.
