Chapter 12 #2
Sam rolled his eyes, unzipping his jacket and draping it over the back of his barstool. “You make it sound like I never come here.”
I reached for the bottle of whiskey without needing to ask.
I already knew exactly what he drank. The small-batch rye with just enough bite to warm his chest without burning.
He always took it neat, in a short glass, no garnish, no fuss.
Not once in the five years I’d known him.
I didn’t need to guess. I remembered the first time I poured it for him at a holiday party.
He was wearing that ugly Christmas cardigan with a turtleneck and told me he liked his whiskey “quiet but confident.”
So I poured it the same way now, letting the amber settle before sliding the glass across the bar. “You don’t. Not by yourself, anyway.”
Sam sighed, lifting a hand to take the glass, but as soon as his fingers curled around it, I didn’t let go.
Not right away or intentionally.
I felt the heat of his skin, the rough brush of his fingertips against mine, and I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
His grip tightened slightly, the warmth of his palm settling over my knuckles, his eyes meeting mine.
It was a moment. A weird, fleeting, completely insignificant moment.
And yet, I felt it.
I cleared my throat, slowly letting go, noting as Sam hesitated before lifting the drink to his lips.
That moment of hesitation? The pause in his breath?
Yeah. He felt it, too.
He took a slow sip, finally answering. “Maybe I wanted some peace and quiet.”
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. “Wrong place for that, sweetheart.”
I opened my mouth like I was about to say something else, then immediately veered. “I saw the weirdest raccoon on my way here. It was carrying a slice of pizza like it had somewhere important to be.”
Sam blinked. “We were talking about peace and quiet.”
“I know,” I said easily. “But now we’re talking about raccoon priorities.”
He stared at me for half a second… then chuckled. “There’s that ADHD.”
The way he said it wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t teasing. It was warm. Familiar. Almost fond.
I grinned. “Occupational hazard.”
Sam shook his head, lips twitching. “Honestly? I kind of love it.”
Something in my chest gave a quiet, traitorous flip.
He wrapped his hand around his glass, fingers strong, familiar, forearm flexing just slightly. Hair dusted his arms, dark against warm skin, the same arms I’d clapped shoulders with, pulled into hugs, leaned against a hundred times over the years.
And yeah, I’d always known Sam Ortiz.
But lately, I was seeing him.
Seeing the depth of his dark eyes when he focused, how they sharpened when he was amused and softened when he wasn’t trying to be on.
Seeing the solid weight of him when he leaned into the bar, grounded and steady.
Seeing the way his shirt pulled across his chest when he shifted, the hint of hair at his collar, the quiet confidence in the way he held himself.
I’d seen all of this before. A thousand times. Hell, I’d spent entire nights sitting next to him at this very bar, trading stories, trading sarcasm, letting the world fade out around us.
So why was it different now?
Why was my brain cataloging things it had always brushed past? The curve of his mouth when he grinned. The edge of that tongue when he got sassy, when his dry wit cut just deep enough to make you laugh and wince at the same time.
God, that tongue.
The thought landed uninvited and stayed. What it might feel like doing something other than slicing me open with snark. What it might do if I let myself imagine it tracing skin instead of words.
I swallowed, shifting my weight, annoyed with myself.
This wasn’t some stranger. This was Sam.
One of my best friends. The guy who knew my tells, my bad habits, my worst hookups.
The guy who’d watched me make questionable decisions and still showed up the next day with coffee and zero judgment. The guy who knew I didn't date.
I don’t do relationships.
And yet…
The noticing wouldn’t stop. It lingered. Followed me. Stayed warm and persistent in the back of my mind.
This wasn’t just, oh, that’s Sam.
This was something else.
And just like that, his fingers tightened around the glass again.
I saw it. His lips parted just slightly. His shoulders tensed. Something passed behind his expression before he shut it down.
Huh.
That was interesting.
I turned to grab a bottle for another customer, letting that moment settle into my brain.
I worked through the next few drink orders, but I felt him.
Staring. Not in a creepy way, more like a low-frequency pull I couldn’t block, like gravity.
I’d caught him looking like that before, and every time it tangled itself around my gut and pulled tight.
Warmth stirred low in my belly, uncoiling and pooling with nowhere to go but down.
My brain scrambled, flipping through explanations, excuses, anything to keep me from wondering what it would feel like if he leaned in closer, if he touched me like he meant it.
Something was shifting. Or maybe it already had. And now I couldn’t stop noticing.
I moved through the bar as effortlessly as I always did, pouring drinks, shaking cocktails, bantering with regulars. This was my domain, the place I felt most like myself.
And maybe I was used to being watched, to being the one people flirted with, but something about Sam’s presence felt different.
Maybe that was why I caught myself watching him right back.
Which was why I noted the way his jaw twitched slightly when a guy at the other end of the bar leaned in close.
A handsome guy, confident. A guy who knew what he wanted.
And yeah, I flirted back. Not because I was particularly interested, but because that was just what I did.
Sam’s stare flickered toward us, his lips pressing into a firm line.
He exhaled slowly and looked away.
I made drinks, chatted with regulars, and tried to keep my rhythm.
Still, I felt him. Observing. Not in a weird way, just a steady undercurrent of attention that made my skin buzz.
It wound something tight in my chest and lower, heat blooming and settling with no outlet except the edge of my voice and the twitch of my fingers around a rocks glass.
I flirted. Of course I did. Bartenders flirt. It’s how we keep the mood up, keep the tips coming, keep people coming back. That’s all it was. A skill. A smile. A well-timed joke. Just another tool of the trade.
But then his eyes lingered too long. And my smile didn’t quite feel like armor anymore.
I poured another whiskey for someone down the bar.
When I glanced back, Sam was standing.
He didn’t look mad. Didn’t sulk or make it a thing. He just pushed his stool in, offered me a soft, unreadable smile, and pulled a few bills from his wallet.
“Thanks, Liam,” he said, voice low but not cold. “Gonna call it a night.”
I stepped forward automatically. “Hey, I got this one. You don’t have to.”
He dropped the money anyway, the crisp bills fluttering onto the bar along with a generous tip. “I know. I want to.”
And with that, he was gone. Out the door and into the night air, leaving behind an vacant stool and an empty glass.
I stayed behind the bar, hands still on the counter, trying to remind myself that a smile is just a smile. Flirting is part of the job. It doesn’t mean anything. But somehow, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
Sam
Callie’s place smelled like coconut candles and takeout. Soothing and slightly overwhelming, exactly like them. An aroma that settled into the space just like Callie themself. Bold, familiar, and impossible to ignore.
I sank into their couch, stretching my legs out, my body sinking into the plush cushions as Callie grabbed a bottle of wine from the counter. They poured two generous glasses, no measuring needed. Callie believed in two things: full pours and fuller gossip.
They handed mine over before dropping onto the couch beside me, tucking their legs under them.
“Okay,” they said, leveling me with a look. “Let’s talk about this whole Cedar Hollow experience. Give me the gossip.”
I took a slow sip. “I thought you didn’t want to hear about ‘leathery old balls’ and ‘tragic plastic wine glasses.’”
Callie shuddered dramatically. “I don’t. But I do want to know what I missed.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “It was… a lot.”
Callie hummed, swirling their wine. “Define ‘a lot.’”
I hesitated. How was I supposed to explain the pool, the firelight, Liam’s hand in mine?
The way everything had felt just a little too good.
“Just… wild,” I finally said, lifting my glass again. “Good, though. Freeing.”
Callie didn’t say anything at first, just studied me with that unnerving little tilt of their head and a look that felt like it could peel paint, or secrets, right off the wall. I kept sipping my drink, eyes on anything but theirs, but I could feel the weight of their stare, heavy and knowing.
They smirked. “You’re not saying much.”
I offered a shrug, noncommittal.
“Actually,” they added, leaning in a bit, “you’re not saying anything. But it’s cool. We’ll circle back to that later. I know how to wait for the good stuff.”
I arched a brow, but before I could fire off a deflection, Callie shifted gears like they’d been waiting for the perfect moment.
Their eyes sparked as they said, “But let’s talk about the big elephant, or bear, rather, in the room.”
My stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip before I could even stop it.
“Liam,” they said, dragging out the name like it meant something. And the worst part? It did.
I stiffened, gripping my glass a little tighter. “What about him?”
Callie took a slow, calculated sip, never breaking eye contact. “He’s your best friend, Sam. But lately, I’ve been getting the sense that maybe… he’s becoming something else, too.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know how to.