Chapter 6
SUTTON
I’m mid-conversation with Cal when the bell over the door jingles.
I don’t look up immediately but something shifts in the room anyway.
A subtle change in energy that makes my skin prickle before my brain catches up.
I glance toward the door and there he is, Shepherd Haynes, standing just inside like he’s deciding whether he belongs here.
My stomach does something stupid and entirely unwelcome.
I freeze for half a second—long enough for him to notice because of course he does—before I force myself back into motion.
There’s a slight tug at the corners of my mouth, but I fix my face and take a deep breath through my nose so he doesn’t observe that his being here affects me.
Because it doesn’t.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
Everything is fine.
Normal, Sutton.
Be normal.
“Well,” I say when he reaches the bar, keeping my tone light, “look who waited more than twenty-four hours.”
He tilts his head, amused. “You missed me?”
I don’t answer, because I might have, but hell if I’m going to admit that to him. Instead, I set a coaster in front of him without asking what he wants.
Because I already know.
I’m also pretty damn sure he’d drink whatever I gave him without complaining even if it wasn’t what he came in for because he’s one of those nice, non-confrontational types.
“Well thank you for the chat. I take all feedback very seriously,” he teases in response to my non-answer.
“Impressive growth,” I finally reply.
He shrugs. “I guess I’m evolving.”
“That’s optimistic language for a man wearing sneakers with jeans.”
He glances down defensively. “I’ll have you know these are my expensive sneakers.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs, and the sound slides under my skin in a way I try not to acknowledge. I pour his beer without looking, muscle memory taking over to which he nods, impressed.
“So you’re memorizing my drink preferences now,” he says. “ I feel so special.”
“Nah,” I tell him, sliding the glass toward him. “Pattern recognition. Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.” He grins, taking the glass from me. Our fingers brush, brief and accidental, and something in me warms at his touch.
What the fuck is that feeling?
I pull back first, grabbing a towel and wiping a perfectly clean section of the bar because suddenly I need something to do with my hands. “So,” I say, keeping my voice casual, “you survived the weekend?”
“Barely.”
“Let me guess. Grown men in expensive pants running into each other?”
He smiles. “Aww, you watched.”
“I did not.”
“You know the schedule.”
“I work in a bar,” I say defensively. “Sports happen whether I want them to or not.”
“Sure,” he teases, smirking like he thinks I’m lying.
My eyes narrow, and I lean across the bar, lowering my voice. “You know, you’re very smug for someone who gets paid to play tag.”
“Well, it’s full-contact tag, so…”
“Still tag.” I shrug like his job doesn’t impress me because honestly it doesn’t.
Okay, maybe it’s not the sport itself that bothers me, though I’m not sure I could ever truly understand the game of football. It’s the world around it that irritates me. It’s the money. The attention. The celebrity of it all.
It’s his turn to lean closer and when he does I get a nice whiff of his cologne, and holy hell…whatever it is it’s electrifying.
“You know,” he says, “most people are nicer to the guy who tips them.”
“You once told me I don’t owe you any favors,” I remind him. “Plus, most people don’t insult my entire worldview.”
“I didn’t insult it,” he says quietly. “I’m just surviving inside it.”
That makes me pause.
Really pause.
Because…okay, he’s not wrong.
And I hate that.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“How much I hate that you’re not entirely wrong. And that’s annoying.”
He smiles like that’s the best compliment he’s ever received. “I’ll try to be more wrong in the future.”
“I’d appreciate that. Thank you,” I acknowledge, checking the clock and noting the time. Fifteen minutes till my shift ends. “So, what brings you in to this little hole of a bar tonight?”
“I like talking to you,” he says simply.
I blink, speechless for a second because that wasn’t the answer I was expecting. “That’s it?”
He smiles. “That’s not enough?”
I hop down the bar serving several other people before circling back to Shepherd.
“You can talk to lots of people,” I answer with a mindless shrug, glancing up at the clock one more time.
Ten minutes to go.
“True.” He nods. “But most of them don’t tell me my pants are stupidly expensive.”
I can’t stop the laugh that escapes me. “So, you’re here for the abuse?”
“I’m here because…” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “Because I don’t have to be anything specific when I’m here. With you.”
My eyebrows lift slightly and then I glance at the clock again.
I don’t mind staying over if it means talking to him a little longer.
“And what are you supposed to be everywhere else?”
“Depends on where I am and who I’m with.” He shrugs. “Steady, reliable, the guy with all the answers, team leader, role model, whatever the press needs that day.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But it’s part of the job.”
I search his hazel eyes like I’m looking for the lie, but all I see are beautiful flecks of gold that seem to shimmer against the light.
“So, I’m what? Your vacation from responsibility?” I try not to come off offended, more curious.
“More like…a breath of fresh air,” he responds, and when he says those words something in me shifts.
Warms.
Melts.
He just said I’m a breath of fresh air.
Me.
Why on earth is he being this nice…to me?
I glance at the clock one last time. My shift is about over, but I can’t quite get my feet to move, and when my eyes come back to Shepherd I can tell he’s noticed that I looked away.
“You’re checking the time. Do I bore you?”
God no.
You’re the reason I’m still here.
“Not at all. I always check the time.”
“You’re leaving early tonight.”
I blink. “How do you know that?”
“Lucky guess, actually.” He smiles and gestures to the clock on the wall with a tip of his head.
“But also, you’ve glanced up there three times in the last fifteen minutes, so either you have a boyfriend who is about to walk in here and kick the shit out of me for talking to his girl, or your shift is about to end. ”
I nearly scoff over his boyfriend comment because the last boyfriend I had was possessive enough he probably would’ve threatened to kick the shit out him.
He would’ve failed, I’m sure, but he would’ve threatened, nonetheless.
Shepherd takes an unsteady breath that has me watching him curiously.
He hesitates for a moment and then his expression shifts and I wonder why he seems so nervous all of a sudden.
“And if I’m being honest,” he says slowly, “I came here hoping you don’t have a boyfriend about to kick my ass so maybe I could… you know, take you somewhere to eat.”
I freeze.
Oh.
I wasn’t expecting that.
At all.
“To eat?”
Like, fancy food?
I take a mental note of what I’m currently wearing. I hardly think jeans and a T-shirt would work in the kind of restaurants Shepherd Haynes regularly frequents. I should tell him no. At least not without going home for a shower first. I probably smell like beer and fried food.
“Or not,” he adds quickly. “It doesn’t have to be a date or anything. Just…you know, food. Somewhere that isn’t here.”
“You don’t like the food here? I thought you loved the fries.”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all. And I do love the fries.”
My shoulders tighten and I wince when I answer, “I don’t really do…fancy.”
“Good,” he says, releasing a breath. “Because I forgot to put on my fancy pants before I came here.”
His goofy smile makes me laugh, cutting the tension that seems to exist between us.
“There are some great food trucks around Stadium Park. I was just thinking about maybe taking a walk and seeing what we find.”
I blink. “Food trucks?”
“Yeah, there’s a whole street of them between stadiums. Cheap. Greasy. Probably questionable hygiene ratings.”
That sounds… manageable.
Normal.
Safe.
He just asked me out.
Shepherd Haynes.
The famous professional football player.
He wants to go out…with me.
I’m not sure why.
I think he has no idea what he’s getting himself into.
Maybe he’s crazy.
“No pressure,” he says quickly. “If you’re tired, or busy, or don’t want to hang out with a guy who gets paid to play tag—”
“Stop saying that,” I tell him, trying not to laugh at my own teasing comments.
Or maybe he’s just a normal guy who happens to play football.
I can’t imagine life would be that good to me, but if the guy wants to take me out to eat at a food truck, I suppose I could give him that. He did come to see me three times, after all.
He seems nice.
And funny. So if nothing else, I’m grateful Shepherd Haynes has a sense of humor. If he really means no pressure, then what’s the harm in a taco or corndog? I can just walk home from there.
I grab a clean glass and pour another beer from the tap. “First of all, for the record, there is no boyfriend or any other man or woman that I know about planning to kick your ass tonight.” I whisper the next part, “So, I think you’re safe.”
“Phew.” He glides his hand across his forehead. “Thought I was a goner for a second there.”
“And secondly…” I slide the beer to Shepherd before he’s finished the first one. “It’ll take me a few minutes to clean up and cash out.”
He nods once, keeping it cool even though something about him looks different now.
Happier.
Excited even.
“Is that a yes, Shepherd, I’d really love to eat greasy questionable food with you?” he asks.
“I mean, I guess…if you don’t mind waiting.”
He nods with a smile. “Happy to wait.”
“You don’t have to though.”
“I know, but someone left this beer on the counter and I don’t like to be wasteful.”
“Very conscientious of you.”
“It is, and to just down it and run would be highly irresponsible.”
“Right. Can’t have the headlines tomorrow being about a drunk Shepherd found stumbling around Stadium Park.”
“Thank you for looking out for me.”
I smile and shake my head and then turn away to finish my work for the night. He tries to leave his usual tip, but I toss it back at him this time. “No fucking way.”
“What?” he asks, shock etched across his face.
“Leaving a tip like that means no food truck. Take it or leave it.”
He narrows his eyes playfully and I don’t miss that he glances down the bar at Cal quickly before pocketing his hundred-dollar bill. “Alright, deal.”