Chapter 3
I’m nervous. Nervous as hell. I haven’t been out in… forever. I’ve got that first-day-of-school energy buzzing under my skin. But I need to hold it together, pass for a confident adult and not a mom escaping for one kid-free evening.
Demi’s made sure I look fabulous—by her standards, anyway—though it feels a tad more look-at-me than I’m used to. But Demi’s insistent voice rings between my ears: “You’ve got it, flaunt it!”
Maybe she’s right. Or maybe this is a little much for a thirty-nine-year-old mother of a ten-year-old. But then again, who the hell knows anymore?
I tug at the hem of the little black dress, then rub my hands over my arms, wishing I had something to cover the top half of my exposed body. The last thing I need is to attract all the wrong people.
Demi’s humming beside me, far too excited about the night yet to unfold. We round the corner, and that’s when I see him.
The guy leaning in the Ruin's End doorway is a fucking marvel.
He’s so tall, his head nearly grazes the frame, broad enough to block out the neon sign behind him.
His biceps bulge against his leather jacket’s sleeves, clinging to him like a second skin.
His hair is that effortless kind of dark and tousled, the kind that says I woke up this gorgeous and didn’t need to try.
And that jaw—holy hell, that jaw could slice diamonds. Chiseled, exact, a perfect right angle begging to be traced with a tongue.
My gaze lingers—too long—until my pulse drags me back to earth.
He’s got to be in his twenties. Maybe thirty, if the universe feels like granting me a bit of mercy. Still too young. Way too young. The fact that I even noticed makes my stomach twist.
What is wrong with me?
Because I’m old. Done. Well done. I might as well just settle into my golden years, buy a single-story house in Florida, and maybe take up knitting.
I’ll be found dead on my lanai. Dead from old age—not loneliness.
Or more likely, skin cancer from the sun I’d worship. That’s the future I’m looking at.
Not a future with some mysterious, brooding, and very fuckable younger man in a leather jacket.
Demi bounds up the steps as if she owns the place. I trail behind her, wobbling through the mental math of the age gap while questioning whether these heels are a young woman’s game or a terrible idea, period.
When I finally reach the top, Demi is waiting for me near the entrance, cake box still clutched in her arms. A younger guy—who I definitely don’t have the hots for—steps aside to let us in. He doesn’t even ask for our IDs, which is honestly a little disappointing. I wouldn’t mind the ego boost.
As we approach the doors together, just as I’m mentally preparing to slip inside behind Demi, a low, velvet rumble wraps around me.
“Hold up,” the tall one purrs, stepping slightly forward to block both our paths, each syllable rolling off his tongue. “Both of you.”
I freeze, my chest tightening as I tilt my head up to that devastating jawline. His dark eyes stare down at me, sharp, and ready to interrogate. Oh, great.
Demi and I both step back, giving him space.
“IDs,” he says, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
Demi hands hers over first with a flirty smile. He glances at it briefly—she’s clearly young enough that it’s just a formality—then turns his full attention to me.
Damn it, I hoped to sneak by and pretend I’m still in my twenties. Now he’ll for sure know the truth of my age. I dig my wallet out, irritated and slightly flustered. He takes my ID and studies it, holding onto it far longer than necessary.
Only a few seconds pass, but the way he stares at the card has me convinced he’s committing it to memory. I shift on my feet, suddenly hyper-aware of my own existence, and attempt to make a joke. “No one ever asks a fake ID maker to age them up to almost forty.”
I immediately regret it. A fart would have been less awkward.
Nothing. Not even a smile.
Okay, cool. At least he’s not trying to flirt or anything. It’s not as if I’d actually go for someone younger, even if the way that leather jacket fits him is hard to ignore.
Get it together, Sable.
He hands my ID back, his thumb brushing mine in a casual caress. His voice drops to a low, husky whisper: “You’re good.” That hard-as-nails bouncer facade doesn’t crack, but for some reason those smoldering embers in his eyes promise he’s not done with me.
Before I can overthink it, another guy steps out of the bar—so impossibly crisp, he looks like he just marched off a GQ cover.
His clipped-short caramel hair is slicked back in perfect glossed waves.
His shirt is pristine, tucked in just right, and there is an unmistakable air about him that makes me wonder if he irons his jeans.
I’m guessing he’s a bartender, and in fact, I spot a fresh, neatly folded white towel peeking from his back pocket, ready to be pulled out and swapped for a new one at the slightest hint of a spill.
He sees Demi holding the cake I told her not to bring, and I can already tell this isn’t going to go well. His eyes narrow, his lips twist into a tight line, and the atmosphere shifts. Disdain colors his features as he stares at me like a man who’s found grime where everything should gleam.
“Absolutely no fucking cakes inside,” he says, his tone blunt. “This is a bar, not a Goddamn Chuck E. Cheese.”
I glance at Demi, her arms tighten possessively around that triple-layer red velvet cake like it’s an arsenal-grade weapon.
“Okay, Mr. Aggressive.” She’s already making her sexy, pouty face—eyebrow arched, lips sucked in just so—like she’s plotting a face-icing ambush.
“You sure about that? I mean, I’ll save you a piece if you play nice.
” She pops the lid up, runs a finger along the side of the icing, and brings it to her lips, sucking it into her mouth.
“No cakes. Period.” No hesitation, no smile. All business.
Demi shrugs and leans in, grinning, clearly determined to push Pretty Boy’s buttons. She inches into his personal space. He begins to lean back. “What if I feed it to you? I promise it’s not poison.”
The new guy doesn’t bite, but I watch as the first hint of a smile pulls on the tall and intimidating one's rather perfect lips.
“I don’t care how good it is. I don’t care if Duff-fucking-Goldman baked it. No cakes.”
And that’s when Demi decides she’s had enough and… tips. The. Damn. Cake. Over.
It splatters onto the sidewalk. Red velvet and frosting explode in a mess of crumbs and goo. I freeze, staring in disbelief.
“What the hell, Demi?” I can’t help but hiss, but the absurdity of the situation makes me laugh despite myself. It’s my cake, and I didn’t want her to bring it, but now I’m disappointed. In her actions and that I won’t get to taste the glorious creation.
I don’t miss the youngest of the three guys chuckling into his hand.
But what really gets me is the bartender’s reaction.
His face gives nothing away. He doesn’t speak—just stands there, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the ruined cake like it personally assaulted him.
It’s the subtle twitch of his fingers, and the way his jaw tightens that make me think he’s already working out how to handle the mess.
Not emotionally—literally sweeping, scrubbing, erasing.
I’m staring at the disaster, unable to tear my own eyes away, when I hear that low growl from behind me. “You’re gonna need to get a handle on her.”
I twist around to find him leaning so close, it sends a pulse of heat through me.
His dark eyes flick over the mess, then back at me.
I can’t help but take every inch of him in—and there are a lot of inches.
The leather jacket looks even better up close, stretched tight across his broad shoulders, and I notice for the first time the dark tattoo peeking from under his sleeve and running down over his knuckles.
It’s something intricate but hard to make out.
The intensity in his stare pins me in place.
“Clean it up,” he says, voice deep and controlled.
Is he demanding I clean up the cake from the sidewalk?
Panic starts to rise in my throat. I’m not even certain I can bend to pee in this dress, let alone clean icing off of concrete.
Demi smirks but seems to back off, thrown by his no-nonsense tone. The air feels charged, electric, and my emotions tear. I’m aching to cry, half desperate for the comfort of sweatpants and half tempted to see where this tension leads by biting back.
I stay rooted in place though, stuck in the wreckage of my ruined cake, while the bartender’s sharp gaze tracks from the frosting-covered sidewalk to the behemoth in front of me, clearly recognizing who’s on cleanup duty. “Okay, Hex.”
The man in the pressed jeans walks down the steps.
Without a word, he raises his palm out to Demi who hands over the container.
He bends down and uses the container’s cover to scrape the cake’s contents back into the box.
I can’t help but admire the precision of the way he handles it.
Demi observes him, her expression unfazed by the carnage being removed from the sidewalk.
But I find there's something so... fascinating about the way he keeps it all together. When he’s done, he grabs the towel from his back pocket and wipes his hands clean.
My eyes land back on Hex. He’s not the kind of man who messes around.
Big guy’s name is Hex. He is in charge.
And right now, he’s watching me. Watching us.
Heat flares in my chest, undeniable and intense.
What gets me is that behind that implacable look, I catch glimpses of something darker, more complicated—like he's feeling this tension too but keeping it locked down.
The last thing I expect is for it to stir something inside me.
“We aren’t getting in now, are we?” I ask, with a nervous laugh.
Hex doesn’t smile, doesn’t even flinch. “I’m letting you in, but if she keeps this up, you’re both out. Got it?”
Demi shrugs. She hooks my arm and leans in. With a wicked grin and loud enough for all three men to hear says: “Cake got bounced, but that’s no biggie. Let’s find a warm mouth to gorge on our red-velvety sweet spots instead.”
I shake my head, already dreading the chaos that will become this night. “I’ll be lucky if I make it through tonight without her setting fire to something.”
Hex raises an eyebrow. “Watch your back, birthday girl.”