Chapter 11 Liam
Chapter eleven
Liam
The early evening glow bathed the Stag & Lantern in its usual amber warmth. The low hum of conversation blended with the rhythmic clinking of glassware and the occasional burst of laughter. This was my domain, my second skin, my kingdom.
I never planned to own a bar, but when the opportunity landed in my lap, I grabbed it with both hands and never looked back.
Stag & Lantern had been a rundown dive when I bought it: sticky floors, bad lighting, and a rotating cast of regulars who grumbled at the thought of change.
Old man Granger, the previous owner, had run it for decades.
It was his pride once, but time wore him down, and after his wife passed, he just didn’t have it in him anymore.
He wanted out, said he needed sunshine and grandkids.
I was bartending at the time, floating between gigs, when he leaned across the bar and said, “You’ve got the right kind of heart for this place. ”
I thought he was drunk. Turns out he was serious.
A month later, I signed the papers, took out a loan, and started tearing up the linoleum.
I had a vision. Not just for a bar, but for a place.
Somewhere warm, easy, like home. A spot where people could gather, unwind, and just be without expectations or judgment.
I poured myself into every detail. The rich mahogany bar top took weeks to refinish.
The Edison bulbs cast a nostalgic glow. The leather stools grew more inviting with every use.
I trained my staff to be welcoming but on top of it, able to read a customer in seconds and know when to spark up a chat or when to let them drink in peace.
Over time, Stag & Lantern became exactly what I had envisioned.
It was Havenwood’s living room. A place where anyone, whether queer or straight, local or just passing through, could walk in and find a seat, a drink, and a conversation.
And that? That’s what I love most. The drinks, the business, the money? That’s all fine. But creating a space where people feel good? Where they feel like they belong? That’s the real win.
Behind the bar, I moved on autopilot, pouring drinks, sliding cocktails across the smooth wood, giving my signature I’d-fuck-you-if-I-had-time look to a pair of flirty regulars. It was a good night, a good crowd.
And then Sam walked in.
Sam and Callie, actually.
But my brain zeroed in on Sam.
Which was new.
They strolled in around 4:30, sliding into their usual spots at the bar like they owned them. Callie dropped their bag onto the counter with an exaggerated sigh. “If someone doesn’t put a drink in my hand immediately, I’m going to start crying right here in your bar.”
I laughed and turned toward Sam. “Usual?”
He nodded, rolling the tension out of his shoulders, one hand working at the first button of his shirt. “Yeah. And maybe something fried. I need grease after today.”
I grabbed a rocks glass instead, dropped in a single cube, and poured Sam’s usual whiskey with an easy hand.
No garnish, no fuss. Then I reached for the shaker.
Callie’s usual was second nature by now, a dirty martini with extra olives.
Quick stir, strain, and the glass caught the light as I slid it onto a napkin.
Both drinks ready, I carried them over at the same time, setting Sam’s in front of him and Callie’s martini by their elbow.
Sam’s fingers brushed mine, a fleeting touch that somehow felt bigger than it should have.
Callie plucked an olive from their glass, lips quirking. “Finally. Balance has been restored.” They sighed dramatically, leaning against the bar like a Broadway diva in their final act.
I shook my head, chuckling. “Theatrics for happy hour? Bold move.”
Callie smirked, swirling the stem of their glass. “Oh, please. You live for my theatrics. Admit it.”
Sam lifted his beer for a sip, only for Callie to narrow their eyes and lean closer. “Rough day teaching the youths?”
Sam let out a resigned sigh, rolling the glass between his fingers. “One of those days where they all decided, collectively, to be the worst versions of themselves. I think they held a secret meeting about it.”
I snorted, reaching for the bottle of bourbon I’d been restocking. “Sounds like you need more than grease, Sammy. You need therapy.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I do. But in the meantime, fried pickles will do.”
I slid the ticket toward the kitchen, forcing myself to focus on my hands. But my brain? My brain was stuck on him like it had skipped a step and couldn’t find its way back.
Because something had shifted.
Back at Cedar Hollow, on that last day, he’d been so quiet. Tension sat heavy in the car all the way home, filling every stretch of road between us. I asked if he was okay. He told me he was just tired, looking forward to his bed and a shower. That was it. We never talked about it again.
Was he fine?
Maybe. Sitting here now, sipping beer and tossing dry jokes back at Callie, he looked more like himself again. Relaxed in that careful Sam way. Like the distance between us had shrunk back to what it was before.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still different.
Since we got back, I kept catching myself noticing things. The way his jaw flexed when he concentrated, the way his brows pulled together when he was lost in thought, the way his collar dipped just enough to pull at the strong line of his collarbone.
None of this was new. Sam had always looked like this. Had always been like this.
So why was I so goddamn aware of it now?
Why was I drawn to the way his lips pressed around the rim of his glass? Why was I watching the slow stretch of his arms as he settled into his seat?
Why did I want to reach over and undo another one of those buttons and lick all the way down his perfectly hairy chest, knowing damn well I shouldn’t?
Fuck.
I shifted slightly, swallowing hard as I felt the slow, inevitable heat pooling low in my stomach. Not now. Not here.
Thank God for the apron, but I needed to move, walk, distract myself, do anything before I made a fool of myself.
I grabbed a glass, started wiping it down like my life depended on it, and stepped back toward the shelves, putting space between us before I embarrassed myself. Focus. Glasses. Bottles. Inventory. Anything but Sam.
“Alright, what the hell is that look?”
I blinked, snapping out of my thoughts.
Callie was catching me with a dangerous glint in their eye, sipping their drink with far too much satisfaction.
I frowned, keeping my voice steady. “What look?”
They grinned, slow and knowing, teeth beaming in the low bar light. “That look. The one where you were staring at Sam like he was a cheeseburger and you were starving.”
Sam choked mid-drink, coughing into his glass. “Jesus, Callie.”
Heat shot straight up my neck. Perfect. Exactly what I didn’t need. I rolled my eyes, reaching for another order ticket like that conversation didn’t just happen. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” Callie sing-songed, leaning against the bar like they had all the time in the world. “Because I’m pretty sure I just witnessed a full-on rom-com stare. The only thing missing was the swelling orchestra.”
“Drop it.” My tone came out sharper than I meant, so I softened it with a smile. “Don’t you have Instagram reels to scroll or something?”
Callie snickered into their drink, clearly pleased with themselves, but finally let it go.
Sam, however?
Sam was studying me now, his head tilted slightly, brow furrowed, like he was trying to read a language he almost understood. His eyes lingered too long, heavy enough that my stomach flipped.
What the hell is he seeing? Does he know? God, stop looking at me like that.
I cleared my throat, grabbing for the bottle of bourbon and pouring another round for a guy at the other end of the bar. Anything to move, to break the moment.
Behind me, Callie stage-whispered, “I’m telling you, it’s a cheeseburger stare.”
Sam groaned. “Callie, please.”
But even as he turned away, even as the conversation shifted back to lesson plans and fried pickles, I felt his gaze fall back to me once. Twice. Like maybe he was wondering the same thing I was.
“So. Planning another trip next year?” Sam asked, his voice easy, like he hadn’t just been peeping me watching him.
For a second, I just stared at him, caught in the curve of his mouth, the way his finger traced absent circles along the rim of his glass.
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the bar, flashing my signature smile. The one I used when I wanted to be charming, distracting. “Oh, I already have plans in motion.”
Sam hummed, running a finger along the rim of his glass. “I figured. You’re nothing if not persistent.”
“And charming.”
He arched his brow. “Debatable.”
I chuckled and shook my head, but I caught the way Sam looked at me when he said it.
Before I could think too much about it, Callie drummed their fingers against the bar, eyes flicking between the two of us. “Okay, enough with the catty bitch fest. Give me the gossip. What did I miss at Camp Leather Balls?”
Sam sighed, low and exasperated. “It was called Cedar Hollow, Callie.”
“Whatever.” They waved a hand. “I had no interest in going, but I do have an interest in the drama.”
I laughed, leaning against the counter, glad for the chance to shift the focus. “You missed a week of pure, unfiltered gay magic. Sunshine, booze, a clothing-optional pool…”
Callie shot up a hand. “I don’t need to know which of you had your dicks out. I need the tea.”
Sam gave them a look, shaking his head. “There wasn’t really drama, just… a lot of interesting characters.”
I smiled, watching him carefully.. “Marcus says hi, by the way.”
Sam stiffened, just slightly, but enough that I caught it. He covered it with a slow sip of his drink, but I wasn’t blind.
Callie perked up immediately. “Oh? Who’s Marcus?”
I stretched my arms behind me, letting my smile spread, playing it off like it was nothing. “A very handsome man I got to know in the hot tub.”
Sam didn’t miss a beat, though his voice had an edge. “And in your tent, right?”
That one hit harder than I expected, and Callie’s cackle nearly rattled the glasses on the shelf. “Of course you did.”
Heat crept up my neck. I felt the blush, and hated that I couldn’t control it. Sam didn’t look at me after that. Just kept staring at his whiskey like it had all the answers he wanted. How the hell did he know about the tent?
Callie leaned in again, practically vibrating with delight. “Please tell me someone got messy.”
I tapped my chin, buying myself a second. “Not messy, exactly. But there was naked volleyball. Some truly horrifying campfire stories. And a group of guys from Chicago who turned out to be professional nude fire twirlers. Put on a whole show.”
Callie’s eyes widened, nearly spilling their drink. “You mean to tell me I missed naked, fire-wielding men?”
I laughed, quick and loud, grateful to redirect the spotlight. “And you called us the crazy ones.”
Sam raised his glass. “I support the arts. Especially when the arts involve fire, nudity, and extremely committed men.”
Callie groaned, head thrown back like they were auditioning for a soap opera. “Damn it. If I had known there’d be pyro gays, I might have reconsidered.”
I leaned against the bar. “So, Jules is officially in full wedding planning mode.”
Sam snorted. “Oh, yeah. Elliott barely has a say. He’s just along for the ride at this point.”
Callie perked up. “Okay, that I can believe. Jules can be a nightmare.”
I shrugged, pouring myself a whiskey. “He’s actually thriving, but Elliott’s just letting him run wild. We were talking at the bonfire one night, and he said, and I quote, ‘I just have to show up, and I love that for me.’”
Callie cackled. “Yeah, that tracks. But enough about the blissfully engaged…what’s the deal with Noah and Evan? I saw Noah’s Instagram. He’s back in Chicago for work. That man must be on a serious apology tour with Evan.”
Sam made a face. “Oh, he really fucked up this time.”
I shook my head at the memory. “Went to his apartment a few nights ago. He was in full self-pity mode, acting like the whole damn world was out to get him.” I let out a dry laugh. “So I told him to get off the cross, someone else needs the wood.”
Callie spit out their drink. “You did not.”
Sam pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “Jesus, Liam.”
“He needed to hear it. And we are all sick of hearing about the drama from both of them. I love the kid, but he was in full self-sabotage mode.”
Sam rubbed at his temple, sighing. “God, I hope so. I can’t take another round of them being hot, then cold, then hot again. I just want them to be… consistent.”
Callie groaned. “Right? The whiplash is exhausting.”
I clinked my glass against Sam’s. “To Evan getting his shit together.”
He laughed softly, tipping his glass toward mine with a shake of his head. “To Noah, too. They both need it.”
The fried pickles arrived and he and Callie dove right into the basket. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.
Something tugged in my chest again, subtle but undeniable.
I wasn’t imagining this.
I couldn’t be.
Something was happening between us.