13. February 4, Friday
Chapter thirteen
Zoey
Sound slammed into her—bass thumping, laughter too loud, glass clinking. The bar smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and sweat.
God, how she missed this.
Not.
Zoey hovered just inside the entrance with Kayla at her side, blinking hard as her eyes adjusted. Neon bounced off every shiny surface, turning the room into a blur of color and motion she couldn’t quite lock onto yet.
“You look like you’re walking to the gallows,” Kayla murmured. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Zoey muttered. “Unfortunately.”
Breathing—and wildly overdressed for this place.
The dress looked like a great idea in their mirror: deep green, curve-hugging, strategic enough to spotlight her chest and politely ignore the rest. Her hair had behaved. Her eyebrows matched. She deserved a medal.
Under bar lighting, she felt like a flashing sign: HI, I’M DESPERATE.
“Okay,” Kayla said, scanning the room like a battlefield commander. “Game plan. Drinks. Recon. Flirting. If anyone gets creepy, I tase them and we leave.”
“Excellent. Love a built-in escape route.”
They elbowed to the bar. The bartender, an unfairly attractive man with a man-bun and septum ring, smiled politely, took their order, and radiated zero interest.
Her inner sexy beast coughed, then went back to sleep.
“Warm-up round,” Kayla said. “Don’t waste your A-game on someone paid to smile.”
Kayla grabbed her gin and tonic, and Zoey picked up her blood orange smash before they turned, surveying the room.
Clusters of women leaned together laughing. Packs of guys scanned the crowd like hunters. A couple made out against the wall like oxygen was optional.
Taking it all in, Zoey sipped her drink. Tart, sweet, stronger than expected. Good. Licking her lips, she placed it down on the napkin next to Kayla’s and waited for her friend’s instruction.
“Okay,” Kayla said, clapping her hands determinedly. “A few minutes of people-watching. Then you pick someone to talk to.”
Zoey nodded. Easy. She was excellent at observing. Low risk. No humiliation required.
Her gaze snagged on a guy at the far end of the bar—tall, floppy hair, laughing with his friend. Kind eyes. Maybe. Hard to tell from here.
“Him,” Zoey said, before she could overthink it.
“Ooh,” Kayla approved. “Soft-boy energy. Go get him, tiger.”
“I hate everything you’re saying,” Zoey muttered, but her feet moved anyway.
Halfway there, her brain kicked into commentary mode, which was always a bad sign.
Just walk. Human legs. One foot in front of the other. Don’t think about your arms. Don’t think about how long it’s been. Don’t—
Her heel caught. On what? Who knew. A purse strap, a cable, fate.
The barstool beside him wobbled.
Zoey grabbed it instinctively. The guy turned.
“Hi!” she blurted. “Talk about falling for someone you just met.”
She gave a weak laugh, flush rising at his non-reaction. Her gaze snagged on his drink.
“I...I like your...ice.”
Oh no.
“My ice?” he repeated.
“Your drink,” she rushed on, pointing. “The cube. Big cube. Very...efficient.”
He glanced down at his glass. Back at her. “Efficient.”
“Yes. Or not. Because surface area. Smaller cubes melt faster. I think. Maybe. Which is,,,umm. I’m going to stop now. I’m Zoey.”
A beat.
“Uh,” he said. “Hi, Zoey?”
“Yep. Enjoy your...beverage.” She lifted her glass in a salute. Whyyy? Face burning, she retreated with what dignity she had left.
Back at Kayla’s side, Zoey thunked her drink onto the bar. “Well. My sex appeal is officially deceased.”
Kayla was bent over, choking on laughter. “Did you just compliment his ice?”
“I panicked,” Zoey hissed. Sticky citrus sloshed onto her wrist. “My mouth is a crime scene.”
“Okay,” Kayla chuckled, wiping her eyes. “New plan. No conversation. Smile. Eye contact. Let them come to you.”
Something caught her attention, and Kayla frowned, absently chewing her thumbnail. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said absently, then strode across the bar, steps determined and anything but inviting.
But, apparently, a woman on a mission was still a mating call because nearly every man in the area turned his head as she marched through the room.
If only Zoey could command that level of appreciation.
She heaved a sigh and took a swig of her drink, wishing it was coffee. Or at least a Kahlúa and milk.
Right. Okay. Lure, not ambush.
Zoey leaned against a high-top, swirling her drink and staring into the middle distance like she was mysterious and deep.
Thirty seconds later, her back ached, and she realized she was squinting in a way that read less enigmatic seductress and more forgot my reading glasses.
She shifted, searching for an alluring angle. Her heel wobbled. She overcorrected, bumped the barstool beside her, and sent it skidding to the floor with a metallic clang that cut through the music.
A dozen heads turned.
By the time she righted the stool, she was cursing herself for wanting heads to turn for her like they had for Kayla.
Hot damn.
Her cheeks burned. If she could have waved a wand and disapparated, she would have.
This had officially been a terrible idea. The dress was wrong. The bar was wrong. Her game was nonexistent. None of these men made her chest do that strange, weighted-feather thing she reserved for one very specific hockey captain.
Nope. Not going there.
“Hey.”
The voice came from her left. She straightened and pasted on a polite smile.
A man slid into her space, bringing with him a wall of cologne. Slicked-back hair. Too-tight shirt. Gold chain. He smelled like confidence and poor decisions.
“Rough night?” he asked, clearly aiming for charming.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, edging back half a step. “Barstool homicide. No big deal.”
He stepped forward anyway, closing the space she’d tried to make. His hand landed on the small of her back.
Her skin crawled.
Zoey glanced over his shoulder. Kayla was across the bar, mid-heated conversation with Jason, hands flying as she talked him down from something.
Great. Emotional support human unavailable.
“You here alone?” the man asked.
“With a friend,” Zoey said, forcing a laugh as she shifted away. “She’s just...coaching someone through a crisis.”
He smiled like that was cute, not an answer. “Then she won’t miss you for a while.”
He still didn’t move.
Her pulse kicked. “I actually need to go check on her.”
“Relax, beautiful,” he said, shifting with her when she tried to step around him. “We’re just talking.”
“We’re actually done,” she said, firmer now, pushing his hand off her back.
His smile stayed in place, but his eyes cooled. “Thought you wanted company. Doing laps out here, knocking over stools.”
Shame flared hot. “Please move.”
He sighed, like she was the inconvenience. “You don’t have to play hard to get—”
His hand vanished.
Zoey blinked.
The air shifted—heavier, charged.
A solid presence settled at the man’s side, and a familiar gravity pulled at her. Zoey let out a ragged exhale and the fear drained through her feet.
Ilya.
She knew before she looked.
His expression was calm. Focused. Unmovable.
He looked at the man. “Problem?” he asked softly.
The guy’s gaze flicked up, taking in the broad shoulders, and the way Ilya placed himself squarely between them.
His smirk faltered. “Nah, man. We’re good. Just talking.”
“She said she’s good,” Ilya replied, voice still even. “You should listen when a woman says stop.”
His accent thickened on stop.
The man muttered something and backed away, disappearing into the crowd.
The space around her loosened. Her knees did, too. “Thank you,” she said, her words slightly rushed. “I had it under…well, okay, no, I didn’t.” She deflated. “Thank you for the save.”
The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Looked like you wanted a save. Not that you needed one.”
He was dressed down, for him; dark jeans, a black Henley that made his shoulders look absolutely illegal, leather jacket open over it. His hair was damp at the ends, like he’d showered recently. He smelled faintly of soap and something warm and woodsy that made her want to lean closer.
“Do you just...patrol bars on Friday nights, rescuing clumsy women from bad decisions?” she asked, trying for light.
“Nah, on mother-hen duty,” he explained with a shrug. “Team is out trolling. Bobby has a date night planned. So, it’s my night for babysitting.”
Of course. It explained the cluster of very large men in one corner, half-hidden by a pillar. Ty’s laugh carried over the music, followed by Ian pantomiming something with a shot glass.
Zoey’s gaze darted back to Kayla and Jason. They were still mid-argument, Kayla’s back to her, Jason rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to punch a wall but was too well-trained to do it in public.
“I was attempting to reboot my dating life.” She made a face. “It blue-screened.”
One side of his mouth tipped up. “Have you tried turning off and on again?”
Oh, the jokes she could make.
But…probably not a good idea to make a ‘turning on’ joke to Ilya.
Instead, Zoey gave him a wry grin and shook her head.
After a beat, he teased with a grin, “your ice speech was...interesting.”
“You heard that?” Horror and mortification collided.
“Not firsthand. It’s making the rounds.”
Kill me now. “People are talking about how I tried to flirt with a man about...frozen water?”
Ilya shrugged and grinned down at her. “Could have been worse. You could have opened up with hockey stats.”
“I know hockey stats,” she protested automatically.
“I know.” Something in his voice went soft. “That is why it could have been worse. You’d have scared him shitless.”
“Okay, bully,” she said, laughter finally bubbling up properly now that the adrenaline from Creepy Bar Guy was ebbing. The laughter felt like relief, like air returning to a room. “I should go. Clearly, the universe does not want me to be a vixen tonight.”
“Eat first,” he said, immediate. “There is a diner on the corner. They have ice.”
His sing-songy tease made her punch his biceps and then internally chastise herself for the uninvited contact. Again.
“You’re bribing me with superior ice?”
“Coffee. Pancakes,” he amended. “Come.”
The word slipped out of him like a habit, low and rough. Her pulse stuttered.
She should say no. Rational-brain Zoey knew that. Going to a diner with her ex-husband’s best friend, a man who her body had started reacting to like he was a dozen maple sugar donuts stacked in human form, ranked somewhere between unwise and catastrophically stupid.
But he’d stepped between her and that guy without hesitation.
And if she went home now, she’d sit on the couch and stare at Mitch’s tabloid smile until her eyes burned.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Coffee. Pancakes. Better lighting.”
He nodded once, satisfied. “Come,” he repeated, softer now.
Zoey lifted her phone: Escaping with Ilya. Don’t wait up!
She hit send before she could overthink the phrasing and followed him out into the cold.