Chapter Four
SECOND SHOT
Jules
I don’t mean to show up at The Brew House.
Not really. Okay, maybe a little.
I figured since I’m already across the street, I might as well swing by.
Being the friendly neighborhood firefighter and all.
Which also happens to be exactly how far I’m willing to wander on a warm spring afternoon just to maybe catch another glimpse of the grumpy barista who I can’t get out of my mind… and then left like his ass was on fire.
The Brew House is mostly empty when I step inside, that perfect lull between the early risers and the lunch rush. Quiet enough to hear the low hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of a mug being stacked, the hum of whatever inner monologue Wes is trying to drown out by staying busy.
The bell chimes.
He doesn’t look up right away.
For a second, I think maybe he won’t.
Then he does.
Slowly.
And it’s like he already regrets it.
I flash a grin, two-finger salute and all. “Miss me?”
Wes doesn’t flinch, but his eyes go flat. “We’re not hiring.”
“Good thing I’m not looking for a job.” I drift closer to the counter, hands in my jacket pockets like I’m not absolutely here on purpose. “I’m more of a community outreach kind of guy.”
Wes exhales through his nose and wipes the counter with a precision that could sand paint off a truck. “Pretty sure that kind of outreach is illegal.”
I glance around—no Aaron. No buffer. Just… us.
Just me and the man who touched me like he meant every second and then shut the door so hard I’m still seeing the imprint. Metaphorically of course.
I lean one elbow against the counter. “You always this grumpy after losing control, or did I hit a nerve?”
His shoulders stiffen, but barely. Enough to let me know I struck something.
He sets the rag down and turns to refill the milk carafe. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t rise to the bait.
But he doesn’t tell me to leave either.
“Come on,” I say, voice softer now. “You can’t seriously be pretending that,” I motion between us, “didn’t happen.”
“I’m working.”
“So work around me.” I pick up a sugar packet and flick it between my fingers, waiting him out. “I’m not stopping you.”
He pauses for just a second too long. Then, steady as ever, “You’re definitely trying to.”
“Trying would look different.” I lean in just a little, not quite closing the distance. “Trying would be me leaning over this counter and reminding you exactly how good it felt when you let me touch you.”
His hand falters. It’s the smallest thing. The kind of detail most people miss.
But I don’t miss anything when it comes to him.
He recovers fast. Slides the milk into the cooler and closes the lid with a snap that feels more like a line in the sand than a sound.
Still doesn’t tell me to go.
I drift after him as he moves to the end of the counter. He refills the napkin dispenser like his life depends on getting the corners perfectly aligned.
“Is there a reason you’re here?” he asks, tone clipped.
“I wanted coffee,” I lie. Then add, truthfully, “And maybe a little honesty.”
Wes focuses on the counter. “It was a mistake.”
“Funny,” I murmur, “didn’t feel like one.”
Then he looks at me. And for a second, I see it. The crack in his calm. The heat under all that steel.
I lean across the counter, elbows planted, voice dropping to something quieter. Something honest. “You wanna lie to yourself, that’s your business. But don’t lie to me. Not when I was there too.”
There’s a pause. A beat of tension thick enough to taste.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.
But I see it in the way his jaw tightens. In the way his hands curl into fists and then slowly release.
We’re not touching, but we’re close.
Close enough to feel the charge between us start to hum again.
He might have ran before, but I’m not letting him rewrite that moment. And I’m definitely not letting him shut the door on whatever the hell that was between us.
Not this time.
He tries to walk away.
Not with his feet, Wes barely moves. But I feel it. The shift in his stance, the way his shoulders square just a little too tight. Like he’s bracing for impact. Like he’s hoping if he stands still long enough, I’ll take the hint and leave.
But I don’t walk away from things that matter. And for some reason… he matters.
Especially not when they look at me like he just did.
Not when I’m this close to breaking him.
“I get it,” I say, voice low but steady. “You don’t do messy. You don’t do vulnerable. And you definitely don’t do guys like me.”
He focuses on something beneath the counter that doesn’t need fixing. A rag, a stack of lids,a receipt with smudged ink, none of it important, and all of it a distraction.
“But you did me,” I go on, pushing now, letting the words hang between us. “And I know you felt it.”
“That was a mistake.” His tone is clipped, almost bored. Like he’s trying to cut the moment off at the knees.
“No,” I shake my head, heart thudding harder. “It was real. And you can’t stand that, can you?”
His head lifts. Just barely. But it’s enough.
I see the flicker or whatever’s behind that calm. Regret, maybe. Anger. Guilt?
Or maybe it’s just fear, sharp and silent.
“You kissed me like you meant it,” I say, quieter now. “Touched me like you forgot how not to want someone.”
Wes presses his palms flat against the counter, bracing himself. His jaw clenches. “You don’t know what the hell I meant.”
“Then tell me,” I challenge. “Look me in the eye and say it meant nothing. Then I’ll leave.”
He doesn’t.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.
Doesn’t say a damn word.
So I lean in, lowering my voice to something closer to truth. “Right. That’s what I thought.”
The next second is a blur.
One beat we’re standing across the counter, tension snapping in the air like a downed wire.
The next… Wes moves.
Fast.
He grabs my shirt and yanks me across the counter, dragging me into his space, his grip like iron.
And then he kisses me.
Hard.
No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and hunger and a low, guttural sound that tears from his throat like it’s been trapped for months.
His mouth crushes mine, furious, desperate, so intense it steals the air from my lungs.
It’s not sweet.
It’s not slow.
It’s a confession in the form of impact.
And I meet him halfway.
My hands fist in his shirt, yanking him halfway over the counter, desperate to keep him close—even as the edge digs into my ribs. It hurts. I don’t care. I’d let him pin me to the damn floor if it meant he’d keep kissing me like this, like I’m the only thing he wants and the last thing he should.
He tastes like espresso and restraint.
His fingers are in my hair. On my jaw. Gripping me like he’s still trying to hold himself back, but can’t quite do it.
And just when I start to think he might let this happen—
He stops.
Pulls away like he touched fire. Like I am the fire.
And suddenly I’m alone again, breath ragged, chest heaving, lips bruised and parted like I’m still chasing him.
“What the hell was that?” I manage, dazed.
Wes doesn’t answer.
He takes a step back. Then another. Like putting distance between us might erase what just happened.
But his hands are shaking.
Just barely.
His mask slips back into place so fast it makes my head spin. Blank expression. Calm voice. Nothing to see here.
“It was a mistake,” he says, flat and hollow.
And just like that, he’s gone.
Not physically—he’s still behind the counter, but now he’s facing away, knuckles white where they grip the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
Emotionally?
He’s vanished.
Shut me out so hard I can feel it behind my ribs.
And I’m still standing here, heart on fire.
Mouth aching for more.
Still chasing the taste of something he won’t even admit.
I wait for him to say something. Anything.
But he just stands there, jaw tight, arms locked at his sides like the only thing keeping him from shattering is that wall he’s trying so hard to keep between us.
The seconds drag.
Then I speak. “So that’s it?”
My voice isn’t loud, but it lands sharp. The kind of edge that cuts deeper because it’s quiet.
Wes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even meet my eyes. He just reaches for the nearest mug and starts stacking it like I’m not even here.
“It shouldn’t have happened.”
Not the kiss. Not the way he touched me like he needed it. Like he needed me.
“Funny,” I say, throat tight. “You didn’t seem so sure a minute ago.”
He still won’t look at me.
“You keep saying it’s a mistake,” I add, “but you don’t seem to believe that when your mouth is on mine.”
There’s a shift, small, but there. His fingers curl around the mug like he might crush it. His shoulders rise, then fall with a breath that sounds anything but steady.
“I’m not doing this,” he mutters.
“Doing what?” I push, but not like before. No humor now. Just me, raw and exposed and tired of pretending I’m not. “Letting something mean more than it’s supposed to?”
His silence is answer enough.
I step back, not to leave, just to breathe. My pulse is still racing. My hands still shake from the way he kissed me. From the way it felt like something neither of us meant to let slip.
“I don’t do halfway, Wes.”
Still nothing.
“I don’t chase people who keep closing the door and pretending they didn’t just open it.”
He finally looks up, barely. Just enough to sting.
“I’m not asking you to chase me.”
“No,” I say, the hurt starting to burn now. “You’re just standing there waiting for me to walk away so you don’t have to.”
That one hits. I see it in the flicker across his face. The crack in the armor he’s built so carefully.
But he still won’t give me more than this. Still clinging to some idea that pushing me away is the safer choice.
He shifts back behind the bar, needing space. Needing distance. He grabs the rag he dropped earlier and starts wiping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
And maybe it is.