That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

2. WADE

WADE

Pretty Boy Problems and Late-Night Revelations

I was doing my best not to look over at Mr. Pretty Boy. Honestly, how someone could look that chiselled was beyond me. His jawline could cut glass, and my mind kept wandering, imagining what it would feel like to run my tongue along its sharp edge. I shut those thoughts down as quickly as they came because he was exactly the type I needed to avoid—just another preppy, arrogant guy who coasted on his looks and charm.

Hell, I knew the type. Dated the type.

My ex was the poster boy for that brand of trouble. Good looks and charisma were their weapons, disarming people with smiles, quick wit, and fluttering lashes. They had a knack for turning even their screw-ups into something cute. And let’s not forget his nipples, practically making a public announcement under that sheer black shirt. It was warm in my bar—those headlights were all me.

He sat on his stool, unnervingly quiet, swinging his legs like he was ten, scanning the place with those too-pretty eyes. Every so often, he stopped to take a sip of his wine, and I swear the face he made was bordering on obscene.

The soft moan, the way his lips curved like the drink was doing things to him I only wished I could do. It was the kind of thing that made me turn away, swallowing down the heat rising in my chest.

It had been a while since I’d had sex, sure, but this guy was doing something to me I wasn’t sure I could ignore for much longer.

The night stretched out, and my bar settled into its usual lull. The neon lights outside gave the place a soft glow, the few patrons scattered across the space lost in their own worlds. I leaned against the counter, wiping down the polished tops out of habit. It was peaceful, familiar—until it wasn’t.

A loud bang broke through the calm, the sound rattling the front windows and making my stomach drop.

I straightened, every muscle in my body going taut. My gaze snapped toward the door, my ears pricked at the sound of raised voices cutting through the alley. The hum of distant traffic faded into the background as that electric charge I’d felt earlier crackled through the air.

This wasn’t the usual group of drunk idiots stumbling past. Something felt off.

I glanced at Pretty Boy, who’d stopped mid-sip, his wide honey-brown eyes locking onto mine.

My bar had only been open a year, and if I were honest, it had been a painfully slow start. To say it was a struggle? That would’ve been sugarcoating it. The location had been a gamble from the beginning—tucked away from the bustling heart of Vancouver's nightlife scene. But I’d envisioned it as a hidden gem, a quiet refuge for those needing a break from the chaos of the city.

Spoiler alert: the people who wanted a break from chaos were few and far between.

Despite my best efforts, my dreams seemed to be slipping through my fingers like sand. I was good with numbers, knew how to keep a bar running better than most, but marketing?

That was a whole other beast I had no idea how to tame. And now, as the weeks dragged into months, the harsh reality was settling in—my life's savings were dwindling faster than my patience, and I was teetering dangerously close to the edge.

And, of course, Mr. Pretty Boy had pointed out just how not “pumpin’” my bar was, to use my mom’s words. He didn’t even sugarcoat it—just waltzed in all glitter and sass, sipping his Merlot and reminding me of every single crack in my already crumbling walls.

The doorbell chimed, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I looked up to see a group of people saunter in—mostly men, all dressed to the nines, looking like they stepped out of a Pride runway. Or Pretty boy’s closet. I forced a smile, though I knew my lumberjack physique didn’t exactly scream “Friendly bartender.” I was more the type who made kids cling to their parents in grocery stores.

The jukebox in the corner saved me, blaring “ Benny and the Jets ,” filling the empty spaces with its rhythm.

I headed over to take orders, trying to ignore the gnawing sense of dread creeping up my spine. But before I could even process the crowd, the door swung open again, bringing in another wave of patrons.

My pulse quickened, a mix of excitement and panic. The bar was filling up—great for business, terrible for the fact I was flying solo tonight. I didn’t have the luxury of extra staff when I was barely keeping the lights on. So, I hustled. Fast. Taking orders, pouring drinks, wiping counters. My eyes darted to the door every few minutes as more people trickled in.

And then, it happened. In the midst of the chaos, a blur moved beside me. I blinked, staring as Mr. Pretty Boy himself took up residence behind the counter. Like he owned the damn place.

“What the hell are you doing?” I barked, nearly dropping a glass.

He didn’t even look at me, hands moving like he’d been doing this his whole life. “Saving your ass, Lumberjack. You’re welcome.”

The audacity. “Get out from behind my bar.”

“No,” he shot back, those honey-brown eyes twinkling like he was daring me to argue. “You’re drowning. Let me help.”

I wanted to argue. To throw him out. But then I saw it—how he poured drinks like a pro, how he charmed a group of patrons into upgrading their orders with nothing more than a wink and a flick of his wrist.

He was good. Too good.

“Fine,” I grumbled, grabbing a pint glass. “But you’re not getting paid.”

“Oh, darling,” he said, flashing a smug grin as he slid a perfectly mixed cocktail to a customer. “I don’t need your money. Watching you flounder is payment enough.”

Asshole. But, damn it, he was saving my night.

If I’d had a spare moment to process what was happening, I might’ve been struck dumb with shock. But there wasn’t time for that—not when Mr. Pretty Boy was casually commandeering my bar like he’d been doing it for years. His presence had this bizarre effect of making the chaos feel… manageable. Almost fun.

So, with a mix of disbelief and begrudging gratitude, I soldiered on through the night. I poured drinks, wrangled rowdy patrons, and somehow found myself working shoulder to shoulder with him like we’d been running this place together for years. It was surreal—like stepping into some alternate reality.

Maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what my struggling bar needed.

The hours blurred together in a whirl of clinking glasses, laughter, and the occasional burst of off-key singing. The jukebox played hit after hit, the makeshift dance floor had more action than I’d seen in weeks, and I somehow managed to stop two guys from reenacting a hockey fight in the middle of the floor.

By the time the clock struck four, I was running on fumes.

The last of the crowd dispersed into the chilly night, leaving behind a sea of empty glasses and sticky tables. My shoulders ached, my feet throbbed, and all I wanted was to collapse. But as I turned, there he was—Pretty boy, glowing with sweat, a wide grin lighting up his face.

“Well,” he said, running a hand through his tousled blond hair, “that was one hell of a way to ring in the new year. I haven’t worked a bar shift in over a year, and damn, did I miss it.”

I blinked, momentarily stunned.

Of all the things I’d assumed about him, this was not on the list. Pretty Boy screamed privilege, not hustle. Figure skating, expensive wine, and designer clothes didn’t exactly scream “I used to sling drinks.”

I opened my mouth to thank him, but he kept going, his words catching me off guard.

“I needed that,” he said with a sigh, stacking chairs like it was second nature. “I was this close to going back to that gay bar and letting the first guy who winked at me take me home. Break my stupid no-sex rule, wake up with massive regret, and then go back to pretending I don’t hate being alone.” He gave me a crooked smile, his voice softening. “But this was better. I wasn’t alone. And I won’t be waking up lusting after someone who’ll just end up breaking my heart. So… thanks, Jack.”

I froze. My brain scrambled to process what he’d just said—because that? That was way more vulnerability than I’d ever expected from him. Hell, it was more than I could handle.

“Uh… you’re welcome,” I finally managed, though the words felt clumsy, inadequate.

He didn’t seem to notice, moving on to wipe down tables with the same efficiency he’d shown all night. We fell into an easy rhythm—him clearing chairs and me sweeping the floor. He wasn’t perfect—left streaks on the counters and missed a couple of spots—but he tried. He tried hard.

And damn it, I liked that. More than I should’ve.

As he chattered on, I realized it was my cue to intervene. Whatever spell he'd cast over my bar, it was time for him to go. "Time to hit the hay, Pretty Boy," I said firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder and steering him toward the door. He stiffened at first, then relaxed under my touch, but not without throwing me a dramatic look of mock offense.

"Some way to thank your new friend for helping out," he huffed, though his tone betrayed no real irritation. "But fine, I'll chalk it up to your likely twenty-four-hour shift and general cranky demeanor. Goodnight, Jack."

"It's morning," I pointed out dryly, arching a brow.

“Well, good morning to you too, Jack," he countered with an exaggerated eye roll. "But I’m still saying night because my mornings start when I’m curled in bed, not running on fumes. Real good mornings are when a man is embracing me with his morning wood pressed against my ass. Alas," he added with a theatrical sigh, "my good mornings have been as dry as the Australian desert."

The back of his hand flew to his forehead in full melodramatic flair, and before I could stop him, he leaned his head against my chest like he was auditioning for a soap opera. It took everything in me not to laugh, though I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

"Isn't the saying 'the Sahara Desert?'" I teased, though my chest tightened slightly at his words.

He tilted his head up, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "It is, but my bestie is an Aussie, and I love annoying him with Australian references. He goes, 'You’re not Australian, stop doing that.' And when he’s cranky, he’s actually kind of cute. He’s the softest-hearted, biggest worrywart, type-A mess. So when he’s grumpy, it’s endearing. Unless," he added, "I accidentally out him to his family or his Australian friend, who I refuse to call his best friend."

I bit the inside of my cheek, amused, despite myself. There was something captivating about him, like the world existed to revolve around his energy, and the rest of us were just lucky enough to bask in it.

"Let me guess," I ventured. "Because you’re his best friend?"

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, his grin widening. "Tyler says he can have more than one best friend, but no. There’s good friends, and then there’s the best friend. That’s me."

"Except you outed him," I pointed out. "Pretty sure that knocks you down to the 'just friends' category, not even good friends."

His expression shifted to a frown, and while I wouldn’t call it cute, there was something about the fiery determination in his eyes that made me want to keep pushing. "It was an accident," he said defensively. "I thought they knew, and I was just making conversation. So you take that back, Jack."

"Nope," I replied, popping the 'p' for emphasis. His jaw dropped, and the frustration blooming across his face was downright satisfying.

I reached the door and pushed it open, ushering him out. He stumbled slightly, and for a split second, I felt bad, but then I reminded myself—this man was pure chaos wrapped in glitter and leather. I needed to hold my ground.

"You just wait, Jack," he said, spinning around and fixing me with a sly, knowing smile. "I know exactly what will annoy you the most."

"And what's that, Pretty Boy?" I asked, crossing my arms as I leaned against the doorframe.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he sauntered away, his hips swaying in a way that was entirely too distracting, his leather pants doing nothing to help my self-control. With a raised hand and a cheeky wave, he disappeared into the night, leaving me standing there with one thought running through my head.

Trouble. His middle name was definitely trouble.