23. Amelia
Chapter 23
Amelia
P hysically, I'm on autopilot—serving drink after drink, smiling at tipsy regulars, and pretending I'm fully present. Mentally, though? I'm stuck on Tobias and the beautiful disaster we call our so-called home life.
On the surface, everything looks fine, but the cracks are impossible to ignore—tiny fractures that no one else might see but are obvious when you're living inside them.
All I know is that it's exhausting.
Something's changing in him.
I see it in the way his jaw tightens when he's near me, in the way his eyes flash with something he doesn't quite understand.
He's at war with himself, and I can see it plain as day.
And I get it. Because, same.
My attraction to Tobias isn't a new thing. However, I made my peace with it a long time ago. I thought I could live with it and exist around him without it ever being more than background noise. But now it's loud and impossible to ignore.
He doesn't know what to do with it—with me, with whatever he's feeling when he looks at me—and it's throwing him off-balance in a way I've never seen before. Tobias has always been the calm one, the guy who could walk into chaos and leave it more organized than he found it. The one who never let anything faze him. But now he's so hot and cold, so completely out of sync with himself, that it's almost painful to watch.
And then there's the way he's trying to figure out if it's all in his head or if I feel it too.
I feel it in ways I wish I didn't, and I know he's putting it together. He knows this isn't one-sided. But there's only so much I can keep hidden, and he's so damn perceptive.
What I don't understand iswhyorhowthis has happened. Did I do something to change us? Did he? Or was it inevitable, something neither of us could stop even if we wanted to?
I could ask him. I could sit him down, lay it all out, and figure out what's really going on between us. But that would make it real.It would give this thing permanence, and that scares the hell out of me.
The best thing I can do for him and us is bury it. Dig my heels in, keep my distance, and act like nothing's changed, even if it feels like everything has.
The glass in my hand is spotless and has been for the past five minutes, but I keep wiping anyway. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from wandering to places it shouldn't.
"You okay, Amelia? You've been quiet tonight."
"I'm okay. Maybe a little tired," I say, smiling at Rachel as I set the glass on the bar.
"You know you can go home early if you want. We're pretty quiet tonight," she offers, her tone kind and so full of mom energy that I'm tempted to hug the woman.
Before I can answer, a deep voice cuts in, "If Amelia's getting off early, then maybe she can come and have a drink with me."
Tate.
Rachel and I both turn, and there he is—denim-clad trouble, leaning against the bar with that permanent smirk etched across his face.
Rachel snorts, shaking her head and pointing a finger at him. "Love you, nephew, but a classy girl like her? Way out of your league."
"You don't want to rough it a little, Amelia?"
"Not tonight." I laugh, trying to keep it light as I crouch down to stack bottles in the fridge.
"How about tomorrow?"
"I'm working again."
"The day after?"
I glance at him now, raising an eyebrow. "Do you ever quit?"
"Not often," he shoots back, grinning like this is some game he's determined to win.
"Go," Rachel interjects, clearly over Tate's persistence. "He isn't going to leave you alone if you don't. After that, I want you to go home and rest."
I blink at her, wide-eyed, like she's just thrown me to the wolves. "Seriously?"
My head's a fucking mess, and the last thing I need is... him.
"One drink. Whatever you want. My treat." Rachel's version of a peace offering is also her way of saying, "Go handle your shit."
"Fine,"I say, standing and brushing off my hands as I stare him down. "One drink and then I'm going home."
I move around to the other side of the bar, stopping next to Tate. He's attractive—there's no denying that. But he's not Tobias. He doesn't tower over me the way Tobias does. He doesn't carry that warm, smoky scent that remains long after he's gone. Tate smells like every pretty boy cliché—fresh, clean, and entirely forgettable.
If I were in a different headspace, I could see it—I could maybe even let myself enjoy the flirtation. But right now? My head isn't in this, not even close.
"So, what'll it be?" he asks, wearing the kind of smile that says he's already picked out the spot where he'll hang my heart on his wall.
I'm pretty sure that spot's already taken.
"Vodka and lime, please, Rachel."
The second we sit, I feel female eyes burning into my skin from every direction—some curious, some openly hostile, like I've just walked into their territory. I almost want to stand up and announce to the whole bar,"Relax, ladies. Your boy is safe. By all means, have at him."
I'm not stupid.Tate'sreputation isn't just talk—rumors aren't just rumors when they're backed by a body count of broken hearts. I know Tobias wasn't wrong about him and that he probably thrives on this kind of attention, the whispers and stares that follow him. And here I am, feeding his ego like I've got nothing better to do with my night.
"So talk to me, Amelia. Tell me about yourself,"Tate says, leaning back in his chair.
"You haven't been asking Logan?"
"I asked him the necessary questions."
"And those would be?"
He leans in slightly as if preparing to reveal some dark, dirty secret. "You know, the deal-breakers. Are you gonna go full psycho on my Harley if another girl so much as looks my way? Any evil twins I should know about?"
I side-eye him, unable to stop the laugh that slips out. "Ah, I see—all the important shit, then."I cross one leg over the other, settling back in my seat.
"A man's gotta have standards,"he replies, grinning wider, proud of his very questionable priorities.
"What about you?"I sip my drink, the vodka burning against my tongue. "Should I be worried about your level of crazy?"
"I'm exactly the right kind of crazy,"he says with a shrug, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "But crazy can be fun."
This hour with Tate feels like watching paint dry in slow motion. We're barely sixty minutes in, and I'm already fantasizing about peeling off this dress and slipping into my sweatpants.
He's objectively attractive in a way that ticks a few of my superficial boxes. But that's where it ends. There's no spark, no heat—just a guy and a drink and an hour of my life I'll never get back.
When he heads to the bar for another beer, I exhale like I've been holding my breath underwater. My phone's in my hand before I can think better of it, and there it is—Tobias's name sitting at the top of my messages.
TOBIAS
I've ordered pizza. I didn't know if you'd be hungry when you got home, so I got you a small cheese. Your lasagna tasted like ass.
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, already bracing myself for his next message.
TOBIAS
I'm kidding—it was amazing. But seriously, your idea of leftovers could feed a toddler at best. I'll leave your pizza out on the side.
"You're smiling at your phone?" An older woman's voice cuts through my focus. When I glance up, she's standing beside my table, a glass of wine in hand and an amused tilt to her immaculate red-painted lips. "That's usually because of a guy."
"It is a guy, but it's not like that."
She laughs softly, shaking her head like I've just said the most adorably na?ve thing she's ever heard. "Oh, honey, it's always like that."
Before I can stammer out a denial, she throws me a wink and saunters off. I watch as she approaches a guy leaning against the bar—he's tall, broad-shouldered, and probably my age, give or take a few years.
But she owns it—doesn't even register the whispers rippling through the room or the stares burning into her back.
Good for her.
The realization hits like a cold slap of clarity: I don't have to be here. I don't have to play nice, endure small talk, or pretend this is something it isn't.
I stuff my phone away and stand, done pretending this drink with Tate is anything but a well-intentioned mistake. He spots me heading for the bar and straightens up, his smirk already in place.
But all I can think about is a cheese pizza waiting on my counter and the man who knows exactly how I like it. The man who's probably sprawled on our couch right now, pretending he's not keeping one eye on the door.
"Right, I'm gonna go," I say, stopping just shy of the counter.
"Already? I thought we were just getting started."
"I said one drink. This"—I gesture to my empty glass—"was one drink."
"Come on, we both know 'one drink' is just something girls say when they mean three or four." His smile stretches wide, like he thinks he's being charming.
"Not this girl." I shake my head. "Not tonight."
Tate lets out a low chuckle, leaning back as though he's already planning his next move. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
I give him a polite smile, throw Rachel a quick wave, and head for the door before he can say anything else.
I find my car, slide into the driver's seat, and let out a breath. For a moment, I just sit there, my fingers resting on the wheel, knowing that going home means facing Tobias. But the moment I pull out of the parking lot, my foot's a little heavier on the gas than it needs to be. Because apparently, I'm that girl—the one who rushes home to a man she can't have after a mediocre 'date' with a man she doesn't want.
I walk into the apartment, the familiar scent of home wrapping around me, and as I step into the living room, Tobias turns his head in my direction. He's exactly where I knew he'd be, stretched out on the couch, bathed in the blue glow of whatever movie he's watching.
The energy in the room feels… different. Calmer. Like it used to be before everything got so complicated. It's a relief, but it also throws me off, and I can't decide if I love it or if it's giving me fucking whiplash.
"You're home early."
"Rachel took pity on my apparently exhausted ass." I head for the kitchen, spotting the pizza box like a peace offering on the counter. I'm not even hungry, but he thought of me. He ordered my favorite and waited up for me, and ignoring that effort feels wrong.
Walking back toward the couch, I catch the full view of Tobias. It's impossible not to notice him when he looks like some low-key thirst trap. His black T-shirt clings to him in all the right ways, and just like most other women on the planet, I go fucking feral for gray sweatpants, which the guy seems to live in when he's here at home.
I kick off my shoes and drop onto the couch beside him, the pizza box warming my lap. The scent of melted cheese and garlic fills the air, and suddenly, I'm starving—not just for food, but for this. For normalcy. For him.
"Food okay?" Tobias asks, not even glancing at me as I take a bite. His voice is so casual, so normal, that it almost feels like we're back to being us.
I nod, but before I can stop myself, a groan slips out that's way too dramatic for pizza. He glances at me, lips twitching like he's trying not to laugh. "You're ridiculous."
And then we're just… existing.
Sharing space and silence like we used to, before desire and denial complicated everything we were.
No awkwardness, no overthinking.
And for now, that's enough.
Just this.
Just us.