Chapter Twenty-Six
Molly
Lunch rush hits The Noble Fir like a wave — boots, denim, hungry locals, a couple of loggers still smelling like cedar and chain oil.
Riley’s weaving between tables with a tray like she’s got a motor in her spine, and I’m behind the bar moving on pure muscle memory, while the rest of my memory is working over my course notes and prepping a study guide for my next accounting test.
Slide a whiskey on the rocks to the regular who never tips.
Wipe the bar top with a rag that’s probably older than me.
Make change. Nod. Listen. Don’t care. Lather, rinse, repeat.
It’s supposed to be routine, a safe harbor of habit.
Today, it’s a gauntlet, because every time I glance up, the world tilts.
The windows are my enemy.
Through the streaked glass of the front window, I catch flashes of movement on the garage roof across the lot.
Evan — my personal hurricane in a hardware-store t-shirt and frayed jeans — peels back shingles in steady increments, muscles outlined like someone sketched him from memory and improved on the original.
He’s sunburned along the tops of his shoulders.
Sweat beads on his jaw, running a slow path down his neck.
He works with a rhythm that says he’s done every kind of man’s-labor in this town, and he might do it all again, just to fill the hours.
The sight of him should be boring. It’s not.
I tell myself I don’t care. I tell myself I’m busy.
I tell myself the only reason my eyes keep cutting to the windows is because I’m making sure Mayhem doesn’t “help” him and set the garage on fire.
I tell myself I’m not counting the minutes until he comes back in for a water, or a piece of me.
I tell myself the only reason I care is because I’m the one who vouched for him, and I have a vested interest in making sure he doesn’t screw up or get himself killed by association.
Lies.
A howl from the end of the bar disrupts the loop. “Molly! Where’s the love, babe?” Diesel, leather vest over tie-dye, already three drinks in and not about to let the world forget it.
“If it’s about the tabs,” I say, eyes on the register, “take it up with God.”
“She’s in a mood today,” Diesel stage-whispers to Tank, who hasn’t moved from his position at the corner stool except to flex his forearms and threaten the espresso machine by proximity alone.
“I’m in a mood to work today and not to deal with your bullshit,” I snap, slamming a pint down hard enough to make the foam jump. “Drink it or don’t.”
Tank’s low grunt rumbles from a stool. “Easy.”
“I am easy,” I lie through my teeth.
Riley slips in beside me, dropping a stack of empty glasses. “You’re the opposite of easy.”
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.” I’m already scanning the mirror over the bar, catching a quick flash of my face — cheeks flushed, hair coming undone, eyes with that tight, glassy shine they get when I’m trying too hard not to feel anything.
My gaze flicks, quick and involuntary, through the bar window facing the lot.
Sunlight hits the garage roof. Evan’s up there with a nail gun and a pry bar, shirt tossed somewhere out of sight, skin slick with sweat.
His shoulders flex every time he leans. His forearms tense when he hauls shingles free.
He’s focused, jaw tight, moving like work is a language he was born speaking.
A throb starts low in my stomach.
I grab a glass too hard. It clinks angrily against the rack.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“What?” Riley asks.
“Nothing.”
Another glance.
Riley follows my gaze. “You want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
She grins, not fooled. “You know what. Or rather, who.”
Before I can fire back, a customer edges up. “Two burgers, fries, and whatever he’s drinking.” He jerks his thumb at Tank.
Tank doesn’t look up. “Black coffee.”
The guy frowns. “Coffee? From a pint glass?”
“I’m tired. I like coffee. A lot of coffee. A pint’s worth, in fact. You got a problem?”
Tank lifts his eyes. One stare and the guy flinches as if he got hit.
“Black coffee,” I repeat, deadpan, and start ringing it in.
Riley bumps my shoulder lightly. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
Riley bumps my arm. “Seriously, you’re all murdery.”
“That’s my natural state.” My lips twitch, then flatten.
Riley snorts and takes off.
I try to lose myself in the flow of orders and receipts, the frictionless grace of routine, but it’s hopeless.
My body keeps turning of its own accord, glancing out the window even when I swear I’m not going to.
Every time I do, Evan is still there — shirtless, working in the open sun, glistening with sweat.
Watching him makes my insides feel like carbonated water: all pop and fizz, no substance, just waiting to spill over the edge.
Every now and then he catches me watching.
Just for a second. Just long enough to raise a hand in a lazy wave or flash a smile that’s real, not the practiced kind I wear for the customers.
Then he’s back to work, shoulders hunched over the next row of shingles, arms moving with the easy violence of a man who’s been breaking things his whole life and can’t stop now.
Evan works like he belongs here.
And that thought is a problem.
Because he doesn’t belong here. Not in the Devils’ orbit. Not in my world. Not mixed into the place where secrets get dug up and paid for in blood.
I did this. I asked Claire for the favor, and she didn’t say no. She looked at me with that calm, dangerous patience she uses when she’s deciding whether someone is a liability.
Now Evan is on club property.
In danger. More danger than he knows.
And I can’t stop watching him.
Riley cruises back behind the bar with her usual hurricane energy, but this time she catches me mid-stare, eyes locked on the window with all the subtlety of a car alarm at three a.m. She doesn’t even bother being sneaky about it — just follows my line of sight, then grins like she’s watching a soap opera and I’m the lead.
“He’s hot,” she says, voice pitched for my ears but loud enough to make Diesel snort his drink two stools down.
I try to kill the conversation with a glare, which in my experience works on everyone except Riley and the regulars too drunk to register fear. “Riley.”
“What? He is.”
“He’s just a contractor.”
“Uh-huh.” She leans closer, eyes bright. “And you’re just… an emotionally stable bartender who keeps a shotgun under the bar.”
I glare. “Do you want to die?”
Riley laughs and holds up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Not hot, and you’re definitely not staring.”
I turn, grabbing a fresh bottle from the cooler just to have something to do with my hands. “Good.”
Riley’s voice drops, teasing but gentler now. “Molly… you deserve something good.”
My throat tightens, and I shove it down. “I deserve tips and quiet co-workers.”
She gives me a look that says she knows better, then she slips away back into the chaos, leaving me with my shame and the sweat-slicked view of Evan nailing down roof tiles like he’s punishing the building on purpose and wondering if I can ask him to spank me like a shingle sometime.
I make it through the shift on fumes because I spend most of my energy either staring out the window or fighting with myself to not stare out the window and do my damn job.
By late afternoon, the rush thins. The air cools.
The noise settles into that low, familiar hum of the clubhouse breathing between storms of customers.
When I finally clock out at the end of the night, my feet ache, my shoulders are tight, and I smell like fryer oil and bourbon and other people’s problems. I say my goodbyes to Riley and Mayhem, who are arm wrestling for control of the jukebox, and head out into the chilly night.
I drive home with both hands locked on the wheel, as if I can steer myself away from temptation if I grip hard enough. The parking lot at my building is quiet. Evan’s atrocious sedan is parked in its usual spot.
I climb the stairs to the door and walk inside my apartment, keys in hand, brain already listing what I need to do tonight: shower, study for next week’s exam, maybe email my professor about office hours.
Be smart. Be reasonable. Be Molly.
At my door, I stop.
My hand hovers over the knob.
And I just… can’t.
Because the truth is sitting heavy in my chest: I’m already in too deep to pretend this is casual.
Too deep to pretend I didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time watching Evan work shirtless and sweaty and that the image of him has been running through my head all night.
Too deep to pretend that I didn’t put my name and reputation on the line for him because he’s made me feel a way that I swore I’d never feel again, and that I love him for it.
I turn.
My feet move on their own across the hall.
I knock once, firm.
A beat of silence passes.
The door opens.
Evan fills the doorway in a T-shirt and worn jeans. His eyes flick down my face, then settle on my mouth like he can taste the memory.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
My lips and tongue and lungs forget how to work for a second. I clear my throat like I’m mad about it.
“Mind if I come in?”