Chapter Sixteen
Molly
Last call detonates in The Noble Fir like a pack of firecrackers — sharp, staccato, and full of the promise of chaos.
Glasses clatter. Voices spike, laughter thick with whiskey and all the edges sanded off by a night spent in the company of people who live and breathe loyalty.
In the eye of the storm, I work fast. I stack pint glasses three deep, shuck empty bottles into a waiting bin, catch a question from the far end of the bar without needing to look up.
I pride myself on efficiency, on the way my body can move through a Friday close with the cool precision of a surgeon.
But tonight I can’t seem to stay ahead of it.
Because if I allow myself one second of slack, even just a flicker, my mind immediately conjures up Evan Wilder: his mouth, his hands, the way he took ownership of my kitchen like he’d always belonged there.
His scent — leather, soap, something stubbornly alive — has been haunting me since he left.
I do not have time for that.
“Two IPAs, one whiskey neat!” Havoc barks from the corner booth.
“Coming,” I call, my voice a thin blade that slices through the noise.
I pour with my back to the crowd, ignoring the way my pulse stutters every time the door swings open and in walks another Devil, another reminder of the family I serve and the future I’d always told myself I wanted.
I fill the beers to the perfect line, just the right amount of foam, and set up the whiskey so the glass catches the neon in a way that makes it look almost molten.
I slide the beers down the counter, set the whiskey beside them, and Havoc flashes a grin like I just saved his life.
“You’re an angel,” he says.
“I’m a bartender,” I shoot back. “Angels don’t charge twelve bucks for whiskey.”
He laughs and drags the drinks away.
I turn to the register, clutch at the next job.
Cash drawer. Credit slips. Tips, all ones and fives, still warm from someone’s hand.
My fingers are steady, but my brain is running a background process—one I can’t debug, can’t close, no matter how hard I try.
The memory of Evan’s voice shunts through me, low and conspiratorial.
Secret. Got it.
The way he’d said it was too easy, too practiced, and the thought needles me in a way I can’t shake. I slam the register drawer with more force than necessary, not caring that the sound ricochets through the room. A couple of locals flinch. Good.
Focus, Molly.
I grab the ledger binder from under the counter — my precious, boring, beautiful sanity — and flip it open on the bar like it’s scripture.
Bar inventory. Weekly totals. Vendor invoices.
The numbers make sense in a way people rarely do.
The numbers don’t flirt. The numbers don’t kiss you in midday sun and make you want to break every rule you built to survive.
Behind me, Tank’s low voice rumbles. “You doing math for fun now?”
“Accounting,” I say without looking up. “Try it sometime. Might help you figure out how much you lose betting Mayhem you can out-grill him.”
“You’ve lost your damn mind. On both counts.” Tank snorts like that’s adorable and insulting at the same time.
Mayhem takes the vacated stool, sliding in with the kid-brother energy that makes me want to both hug him and throw him out the nearest window. He props an elbow on the bar and somehow looks both predatory and endearing. “So, if you’re doing numbers, does that mean you’re making a budget?”
“It means I’m checking invoices,” I say, still not looking up. “And if you skimmed from the drawer again, I’m taking it out of your cut.”
He places a hand over his heart. “Molly, I would never.”
I lift my eyes slowly.
He swallows. “Okay. I might. But only for noble reasons. Like buying fireworks.”
“Out,” I say, pointing toward the far end of the bar.
Mayhem grins and doesn’t move. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m in a productive mood.” I tap the ledger. “Unlike you.”
Mayhem leans forward, voice dropping as if he has a secret. “So, who’s got you all… twitchy?”
My pen freezes. I keep my expression flat. “No one.”
He hums. “Sure.”
I flick my gaze to the mirror behind the bar.
The room is full—patches, ol’ ladies, locals—but it feels like there’s a blank space shaped exactly like Evan Wilder.
Which is insane because he shouldn’t be here.
He shouldn’t be anywhere near my work. That was the whole point of the rule.
The rule that I asked for, and that, somehow, just half-a-freaking-day later, I’m already second-guessing.
What the hell is that man doing to me?
My phone buzzes loudly in my apron pocket.
I ignore it.
A second buzz.
I pretend I don’t feel it.
Mayhem’s grin widens, feral. “Someone’s popular.”
“I’m busy,” I snap.
“Uh-huh.”
I reach into my pocket and yank the phone out as if it offended me. One glance at the screen and my pulse trips.
Evan.
No message preview yet, just his name sitting there, taunting me. I lock my jaw and shove the phone back into my pocket without opening it.
Mayhem’s eyes go huge. “Oh. OH.”
I point at him again. “If you say one word, I will put you in the freezer.”
“Can I at least guess?” he whispers, gleeful.
“No.”
He leans closer anyway, and I wonder if he’s ever heard of the concept of personal space. “Is he tall? Like… annoyingly tall?”
“Go away.”
“And does he have, like, ‘normal-guy’ vibes but also you want to bite him?”
I slam the ledger shut. “Mayhem.”
He puts both hands up. “Okay, okay. I’m going.” He slides off the stool, still grinning. “But for the record, I support you. As your emotional support gremlin.”
“Away,” I repeat.
He saunters away like he’s won.
I exhale through my nose and force myself back into the bar’s rhythm. Pour. Wipe. Bill. Smile — short, sharp, professional. My body knows how to do this. My brain knows how to do this.
Then I mis-pour a whiskey.
I catch it before it tops the line, but the mistake is enough to make my stomach knot.
Goddamn it.
I set the bottle down, wipe the bar, and recheck the pour spout like it’s the problem. Like it’s not me, lost in my thoughts about a man who loves to get lost between my legs.
Focus, Molly. Fuck.
Riley slips behind the bar with a tray of empties, her bun bouncing as she dumps glasses into the sink. She glances at me, then at my face like she’s reading a menu.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod too fast. “I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe a word, but she doesn’t push. “You’ve got that look,” she says, lowering her voice. “Like you’re about to stab someone… or kiss them.”
I shoot her a glare that should peel paint.
Riley grins anyway. “Just saying.”
“Go flirt with Breaker or whatever it is you do here besides work,” I mutter.
“I don’t just flirt with Breaker,” she says, offended.
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You flirt with everyone,” I say.
She taps my arm with the edge of her tray. “Not true. Also, can I get four margaritas for table seven?”
“Fine,” I say, checking the clock. “I need you to wipe down table six before Rabid decides to complain like he pays rent.”
Riley salutes dramatically. “Yes, ma’am.”
She heads back out, and I try to breathe through the rest of the shift like a normal person who doesn’t feel like her skin is too tight and her pulse is doing cartwheels in her chest every time she thinks of a certain handyman neighbor.
“Once again, last call,” I shout.
Things close quickly after that — tabs, mouths, and then the door behind the last of the locals as they shuffle out and into the parking lot. I wipe down the bar one last time and grab my bag from under the counter. My phone buzzes again.
This time, I look.
Evan: I know it’s last call. You’ll be off soon. I’m waiting for you at the Ironwood Diner.
My mouth does something traitorous.
It curves. And not just into a smile, but a genuine grin — soft, stupid, bright — like I’m eighteen again and he’s leaning in too close behind the gym and I can’t remember my own name.
For one dangerous second, I feel like a teenager in love.