Chapter 3
SHEPHERD
Ididn’t plan on coming back to the Alley Tap so soon.
That’s a lie.
I absolutely planned on coming back. I just didn’t tell my brothers.
Killian would make it weird. Bishop would read too much into it. Sebastian would give me a look that says don’t screw this up without saying a word, which somehow makes it worse, and together, they would never let it go.
So, I come alone.
I time it, hoping the bar will be busy with the dinner rush, and I’m right. I slip in quietly, my cap low over my eyes so she doesn’t notice me.
She’s busy tonight, a blur of motion behind the bar, pouring amber liquids into glasses with a flick of her wrist and never spilling a drop.
Her hair is down, unlike last night, falling in loose chestnut waves that catch the dim bar lights when she turns.
The silky strands frame her face in a way that softens her sharp edges, making her even more striking than when I first saw her.
She laughs at something a bearded man in flannel says—a sound that starts low and breaks into something musical and unguarded—and the sound vibrates through my ribcage like the bass note of a favorite song played too loud in an empty room.
I take a stool at the far end of the bar and don’t say a word.
I just watch.
She works like someone who controls a room without demanding it. There’s no wasted motion, no flirting for tips. She remembers orders without writing them down and she shuts down nonsense with one smart look.
It’s impressive.
Eventually she glances my way—probably clocking a new body in her space—and stills. Not dramatically, but enough that I know she’s recognized me. Then her eyes narrow and I have a feeling I might be in trouble.
Uh oh.
I pass her a friendly smile, easy and non-threatening, the same way I did last night. She visibly exhales before she walks over like she’s bracing herself.
“You know,” she says, stopping in front of me, “most people wait at least twenty-four hours before making the same bad decision twice.”
I rest my elbows on the bar. “I like efficiency.”
She squints. “You stalking me?”
“Only emotionally,” I tease. “Professionally, I’m very respectful.”
She snorts then looks annoyed that she did. “What do you want?”
“Beer, same as last time. And maybe to not get yelled at.”
“No promises.”
She pours from the tap with practiced ease and slides the glass toward me.
“That’ll be six bucks.”
I set a one-hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “Keep the change.”
Her gaze flicks to the bill, then back to me. “I’m not a charity.”
“I know,” I nod. “It’s a tip. I liked the service.”
She studies me like she’s deciding whether to argue, then pockets the money.
“Don’t make it weird,” she says.
“Define weird.”
She arches a brow. “You’re already flirting with it.”
I grin. “Dangerously close.”
She turns to grab another order. I notice the way she keeps her back angled toward the wall. The way she plants her feet when she stops. The way she never fully relaxes, even when she laughs.
Maybe I shouldn’t notice those things, but I do anyway.
When she comes back, she leans an elbow on the bar, seemingly guarded, but curious.
“So, what brings you back, really? I know it’s not the beer because a guy like you can afford the swankiest of places and this…” she gestures around the dive-bar environment we’re sitting in, “ain’t it.”
I meet her eyes. “You.”
She doesn’t blink. “Wrong answer.”
I tilt my head. “Okay. The fries.”
“Better.”
“And…you,” I add with a wink.
She rolls her eyes and exhales an exasperated huff. “Okay let’s just get this over with. What is it about me that has you so intrigued? Is it my tits or my ass because, spoiler alert, neither one of them is up for grabs tonight, tomorrow, or even the next day.”
They’re both nice, but hell if I’m going to admit that to you.
I drum my fingers against my glass. “I wanted to see if you were always like this.”
“Like what?”
“Terrifying.”
Her jaw drops. “Terrifying?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Terrifying in the best way, of course,” I add. “You’re kind of like watching a thunderstorm from a safe distance.”
She levels me with a pointed stare, clearly trying to decide if I’m complimenting her or mocking her.
“That’s a new one,” she says finally. “Usually guys go with ‘feisty’ or ‘spirited’ when they’re trying to make being difficult sound like a compliment.”
I take a sip of my beer. “I’m not trying to make it sound like anything. Just an observation.”
“Well, observe this,” she leans forward slightly, her voice lowered, “I’m not interested in being some athlete’s charity project or conquest—no matter how much you tip.”
Ouch.
The words sting more than they should. I try to keep my expression neutral, but something must show in my eyes because she straightens, looking slightly less certain.
“Is that what you think this is?” I ask.
She shrugs one shoulder. “Isn’t it? Guy with money, fame, and status walks into a bar, finds the one woman who doesn’t fawn over him, then decides she’s a challenge?”
“Hmm. You’ve got me all figured out, I guess.”
“Am I wrong?”
I want to consider my next words carefully and tell her she couldn’t be more wrong about me, but instead I tell her what she expects to hear.
“No, you’re not wrong,” I answer, flatly.
“You’ve got it exactly right. I’m only here because my ego can’t handle a woman who doesn’t immediately fall at my feet.
I’m deeply wounded by your indifference.
” I keep my expression deadpan as I sip my beer.
She doesn’t smile, but something shifts in her expression. Like, a tiny crack in the armor.
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, you know.”
“Actually, it suits me fine.” I set my glass down in front of me. “But I get why you’d think that’s what this is. Guys like me have a reputation.”
“Guys like you?”
“Athletes.” I shrug. “Rich guys. Whatever box you want to put me in.”
She studies me, arms folded across her chest. “And you think you’re different?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I think I’m exactly the guy you think I am.” I meet her gaze directly. “But maybe not in all the ways.”
A customer signals from the other end of the bar. She holds up a finger in acknowledgment without looking away from me.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, her voice cooler than before. “Try not to buy the place while I’m gone.”
I watch her move down the bar, efficiently and confidently, fielding orders and handling customers with an ease that seems natural. There’s a rhythm to her work, a certainty in her movements that’s mesmerizing. She doesn’t need to try to command attention, she just does.
When she returns, she’s carrying a small plate of fries.
“On the house,” she says, sliding them toward me. “Since you claimed they were the reason you came back.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this a peace offering or a test?”
“Both.” She leans against the counter, arms crossed as I lift a fry into my mouth. “So, you’re a football player.”
“Last time I checked.”
“For the Portland Rush.”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Quarterback.”
I raise a brow. “You googling me now?”
It seems I’ve made an impression.
She rolls her eyes again, not looking the least bit impressed. “And that pays well, I assume?”
“Well enough.” I dip a fry in ketchup, keeping my eyes on her. “Are we having the privilege conversation now?”
“Is that what you call it?”
I shrug. “Call it whatever you want. I’m just here for the fries.”
That earns me another smile and then she shakes her head, but the smile doesn’t fade completely. “I can’t tell if you’re being deliberately obtuse or if you’re actually this clueless.”
I pop another fry in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I prefer the term ‘selectively perceptive.’”
She smirks. “Is that what they call it these days?”
She doesn’t believe me, that much is obvious. Her posture, the slight tilt of her head, the way her fingers tap against her forearm. Everything about her screams skepticism.
“Look, I get it. You think I’m full of shit.”
“I didn’t say that,” she says.
“You didn’t have to. I’m not going to sit here and pretend I don’t understand what privilege is. I know exactly what I have and what I don’t have to worry about.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and I catch a glimpse of a small silver earring before it disappears again beneath dark waves. “You know what’s interesting?” she says.
“I’m dying to find out.”
“You didn’t actually deny anything I said about athletes and privilege last night.”
I pop another fry into my mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “What would be the point? You weren’t wrong.”
“Most people defend themselves.”
“I’m not most people.”
She gives me a skeptical once over. “That’s what most people say.”
I laugh at that, genuine and unfiltered. She’s quick, this one. Sharp in ways that make me want to keep talking just to see what she’ll say next.
“So, what’s it like?” she asks, her tone deliberately casual as she watches me eat a fry. I push the plate toward her, offering her one and surprisingly, she takes one and pops it in her mouth.
“What’s what like?”
“Being rich enough to tip a hundred dollars without blinking. Having people know who you are before you introduce yourself. Walking into a room knowing most people would trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
I chew thoughtfully, considering my answer.
“There’s no right response to this,” I explain.
“If I say it’s great, I’m flaunting my privilege.
If I say it’s hard, I’m playing the poor-little-rich-boy card, so I hope you’ll understand if I simply say it’s complicated.
And I’m not going to pretend it’s not mostly good because I’d be lying, and you’d see right through it. ”
She nods slowly, like she’s surprised by my honesty.
“But?” she prompts.
“But people see what they want to see. They create a version of me, or many people like me, that fits whatever story they’re telling themselves.
” I pop another fry in my mouth. “But spoiler alert, and don’t be too shocked by this…
” I whisper for dramatic flair, “Some of us can walk and chew gum at the same time.”
She snorts, and this time she doesn’t try to hide it. “Okay. So maybe you do understand privilege a little more than I gave you credit for.”
“Thank you very much.” I wink at her. “Apology accepted.”
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re really here.”
I consider my answer carefully. The truth is complicated, and I’m not sure she’s ready for it. Hell, I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
“Maybe I just like places that feel real,” I say finally. “Where people talk to me like I’m a person, not a jersey number.” She blinks at my answer and doesn’t fire back with a sarcastic comment. “And if I’m being one hundred percent honest, because you deserve that, I kind of like the view.”
I say it in the nicest way possible so she doesn’t think I’m being a creep and am pleased when the slightest blush crawl across her cheeks. She doesn’t respond right away, which is a first. The blush fades quickly though, replaced by something more guarded.
“The view,” she repeats. “How original.”
“I wasn’t talking about your looks,” I say, “though I’m not going to pretend I haven’t noticed how pretty you are. But I meant watching you work. You’re good at what you do.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Is this how you usually talk to women? Complimenting their…work ethic?”
“Only when it’s impressive.” I finish my beer. “And only when it’s true.”
She takes my empty glass, her fingers brushing mine. The contact is brief but electric, and if she feels it too, her expression gives nothing away.
“You know what I think?” she says, refilling my glass without me asking. “I think you’re used to people making assumptions about you, so you’ve turned it into a game. Let them think what they want, then surprise them by being…different.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Maybe I’m just being myself.”
She doesn’t have an answer for that, but she sets the fresh beer in front of me and gestures to it with her chin. “Finish your beer,” she says finally. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pauses. “And don’t call me that.”
“Apologies. I meant no offense, I uh…I still don’t know your name.”
She huffs a short breath and then says, “Sutton. My name is Sutton.” She walks away, then adds over her shoulder, “And for the record? I still think your pants are stupidly expensive.”
I glance down at my very normal jeans.
“Good thing I didn’t wear the fancy ones.”
She laughs, the heavenly sound ringing through my chest, and then disappears into the kitchen. I finish my second beer with a contented grin because I finally got what I came for.
The pretty girl’s name is Sutton.