Chapter Eight
Isla
I’m so lost. I want to do what Walker wants me to do - like leave and go somewhere with him - because I don’t want to get fired. But more than that, he makes my stomach flip flop and my heart flutter. Those have to be signs of danger, right? Because I’m a soon-to-be-married woman.
I think about the call from Chase earlier and how I’d found myself stuck between protecting my job but not overstepping or being untrue to Chase.
I’m wiping the bar, but I’m zoning out, daydreaming about seeing my boyfriend, kissing him, feeling him hug me tight. I need to get home to visit him soon. I miss him.
Taking a step to the right to continue, I collide with a powerful, warm frame and glance up at Walker with shock. “Sorry,” I mumble, my face blazing red-hot as I hurry away.
All at once, I’m pulled back into reality as I make my way to the back door to step out and take a breath. With cold air in my lungs and a much clearer head, I go back inside and make my way to the bar.
“Excuse me.” A gravelly voice has me glancing over into the eyes of a man I don’t recognize sitting at the bar. His salt-and-pepper hair doesn't betray his age nearly as much as the deep lines etched into his weathered face. But it’s his eyes that grab my attention. His eyes, the same impossible sage green as Walker’s, hold a lifetime of stories and what looks like regret.
“Can we talk?” he asks, his gaze locked on mine.
It’s not an unusual request; I get plenty of people who mistake me for a therapist, but I don’t mind letting people vent their woes.
“Sure,” I reply, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “But only for a moment. What can I get for you?”
He waves off the offer of a drink with a dismissive hand and leans closer, lowering his voice as if to share a secret with me, and I have to resist the urge to mirror his movements. “I'm James. Walker's father.”
Surprise flickers through me.
“I can go get him for you,” I say, but he’s quick to shoot that idea down, which isn’t suspicious at all.
“No! No, I want to talk to you.”
I study the guy, wondering what the story is here. The resemblance is there, but while Walker's presence is like a carefully controlled storm, James seems like the aftermath—tattered and bitter.
“Did my son steal this place or did he actually buy it?” James's question has me tilting my head, not sure I’d heard him correctly.
His tone makes me pause; there's an edge to his words that hints at betrayal and anger and maybe even hatred. I slide into my role seamlessly, the bartender who's also part confidante, part therapist. “That's quite an accusation,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “What makes you ask that?”
James's mouth twists into a half-smirk, half-sneer. It's clear he doesn't expect my understanding, maybe not even a response, but I've learned that people often just need someone to listen. And I'm good at listening—especially when I’m seeing an opportunity to learn more about my mysterious - and tight-lipped - boss.
“Let's just say, family business can get messy,” he mutters, as if the admission cost him.
I nod, acknowledging the truth in his words, but knowing there's more to the story than he's willing to tell me. Behind every bitter remark hides a deeper pain, a hidden heartbreak. And as I stand there, watching James cave in on himself, his shoulders drooping, his head lowering, his arms pulling in tight to his body, I can't help but wonder how much of Walker's guarded behaviors were learned from this man.
“It sounds like you have a problem with your son,” I say, planting both hands on the bar and leaning back until my elbows are locked.Then I have a better idea and get busy, the clink of ice against glass punctuating the tension as I pour bourbon for the man claiming to be Walker's father. The amber liquid swirls before settling, not unlike the emotions I sense in him. “This one’s on me,” I add, pushing the drink across the bar toward him.
“Thank you.” He sounds anything but grateful. But he wraps his fingers around the glass with a familiarity born of many nights spent seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. With one swift tilt, he downs the two fingers of bourbon, the drink hopefully helping that bitterness he's trying to drown. The glass lands back on the counter with a decisive thud, and he stares at it as if it holds all the answers he’s looking for—or perhaps the questions he wishes he didn’t have to ask.
“He stole from me,” James says finally, as if the liquid courage was all he needed to let the words out. “Then tried to blame his stepmother.”
I absorb his words, a frown creasing my forehead as I try to reconcile them with the Walker I've come to know. Something about the accusation doesn't align with the image of the man who has been nothing but meticulous and commanding since he took over this place. Walker, with his intense gaze and brooding presence, doesn't strike me as someone who would shift blame so easily. Besides, I think if he did steal, he’d say it to the man’s face, not hide like a coward. I’ve never known him to back down from a fight.
Since his arrival, Walker's dominance has been a force that fills the space, demanding respect and order. He's made it clear that he expects excellence and unity. I want to ask if he’s sure we’re talking about the same Walker, but I don’t.
James watches me, his eyes searching for a flicker of doubt or judgment, but I offer neither. Instead, I lean back against the shelves lined with bottles andhold James's gaze, waiting for him to fill the silence with more of his story. How deep is the rift between father and son? And did Walker steal from his father? If he did, why blame his stepmom? None of it makes sense, and I’m willing to stand here until it does.
A thought nags at me, though—why would a man who seeks control and responsibility at every turn instead choose theft and finger-pointing? Walker’s actions speak louder than the words of the man before me. My boss is determined to rule this bar - and probably his life - with a steady hand, not run it into the ground in a fit of rage or spite.
“So, you don't trust him?” I can't help the skepticism that seeps into my tone. Reaching out, I take the glass before him and put it in the sink while he watches my every move as if trying to figure me out.
Walker's father gives a bitter chuckle, like he finds my words amusing… or pitiful. “It was just last month, not when he was a kid,” he says, as if my disbelief adds weight to his words. “Then he came here, and I guess got thrown out. So, he stole this place in a fit of rage to get revenge.”
How exactly does one steal a bar? I’ve never bought a home or business, but I imagine it would be hard to fake and steal. Or maybe it’s impossible to me because I’m not a criminal.
His story doesn't add up. It clashes with every impression Walker has etched into my mind since his arrival. What would the man need to steal? He had the money to buy this place, so clearly he’s not hard up for cash.
I think about how, just yesterday, Walker had pulled me aside, his presence enveloping me in warmth. “What do you think needs to happen to improve this place?” he'd asked, not as a boss issuing orders, but as someone genuinely interested in my thoughts.
He'd taken down all of my ideas, his eyes never leaving mine as he asked for clarification. His fingers had danced over his phone, tapping notes with a precision that confirmed his methodical nature. Why would he do that if he didn't want to better the place? Why bother? And if he stole it, why is he looking at the long term?
“Excuse me for a moment.” I step away, moving behind the bar to give myself some space to think, to breathe. My hands work on autopilot, polishing glasses to a gleaming sheen, each swipe of the cloth syncing with my turbulent thoughts.
Part of me wants to go get Walker right now, to ask him what the heck. Maybe this is just some weird old guy who enjoys messing with people’s heads, or maybe we really are talking about a different Walker.
I glance back at James who now stares toward the door as if seeking answers. Obviously, there's more to Walker than meets the eye.
I want, more than anything, to peel back the layers and see what makes him tick, what makes Walker, Walker.
Before I can say another word, I feel the shift in the air. I think he feels it, too, because his gaze jumps back to me, then focuses over my shoulder.
“Get out.” Walker's sharp command makes his father flinch and removes any doubt I had that the man might be lying about who he is. I whip around to face Walker, my pulse quickening at the sight of his towering frame, all that controlled rage backlit by the dim lights of the bar. A shiver runs down my spine, an odd excitement tingling in my belly.
“Is that any way to talk to your father?” James asks, the words loaded with condescension.
“Yes,” Walker says, his tone so frosty that I feel my body respond like I’ve stepped into the cold. “I don’t want to see you back here again. Understand?”
James’s lips curve into a slight, cruel - but tired - grin, one that speaks volumes about his feelings for his son. “You think you can fool all these people? For how long, Walker?”
Walker's knuckles whiten as they curl into fists at his sides. I sense the tension rising and step between the men.
“Maybe it’s better if you just go,” I say, my tone laced with sweetness I don't feel. I muster my most disarming smile, hoping to defuse the tension before it becomes something more dangerous. “I don’t want to have to call the cops again to trespass someone. I can walk you out.”
James holds his son’s gaze for a beat longer, the silent standoff between them making me hold my breath. Then, with a slow nod, he turns his attention to me. The edges of his eyes soften. “I’d like that,” he says.
I step from behind the bar and lead James toward the door, feeling Walker's stare burning into my back, but I don't dare look over my shoulder at him.
Outside, the evening air is cool against my skin, whisking away the heat of the bar. I walk James to his vehicle, a sleek black sedan that gleams under the moonlight.
“Be careful with that one,” he says, a hint of genuine concern seeping through his otherwise guarded expression.
I nod, as my mind races with unasked questions. What lies beneath the surface of Walker's cold exterior? What pain drives the fury in his eyes?
“Thank you for the drink,” James adds, his hand lingering on the door handle.
“Goodnight,” I say, watching as he slides into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life and I take a step back, thinking about everything he said and wondering what details were left out. There’s more to the story, I know it.
The parking lot is cloaked in shadows as I pivot back toward the bar, the gravel crunching beneath my heels. As I make my way back toward the door, I connect with Walker’s watchful stare across the lot.My whole body jolts and white-hot prickles dance across every inch of my skin.
“I didn’t know you were there,” I say, moving toward him.
“I’d never let you walk out without someone to make sure you were safe.”
That single comment dries up every drop of saliva in my mouth, the moment charged with an energy that sets my pulse thrumming.
“He really doesn’t like you,” I say, unable to stop myself from spilling the tea. I only like drama when I’m watching other people’s - I don’t like it in my own life.My voice is a mix of concern and curiosity, seeking the truth in his eyes.
“Yeah.” Walker's voice rumbles, deep and laced with anger. “Because when my stepmother stole from him, he took her side over mine.” The bitterness bites at the night air, but it's undercut by a raw, exposed hurt that seems to echo around the empty space between us.
What kind of father does that? Not a good one, that’s for sure.
“God, Walker, I—” I say, my heart going out to him as my arms want to bridge the gap and wind around him, offering comfort and understanding.
“Don’t.” He turns to me, the single word sharper than I expected. I stare up at him, stunned.
I know he’s hurting, after all, isn’t the saying that hurt people hurt people? Stepping in close and without saying a word, I wind my arms around his shoulders and pull him in close. The man needs a hug, and I’m not about to walk away.