Chapter 10
Ambrosia is quieter during the early evening rush than it gets later, but quieter doesn’t mean calm.
There’s always a current under this place.
A hum.
Music rolling low through the speakers, bass steady enough to settle into your bones.
Glass clinking behind the bar. Men talking too loud because they think they own whatever room they’re standing in.
Women moving through the floor with practiced ease, beautiful and sharp and more dangerous than half the idiots paying to look at them.
The lights stay low even before the crowd thickens, gold and red washing across polished wood and black leather, and the whole place smells like whiskey, perfume, and money people shouldn’t be spending.
We own the place, which means I spend enough time here to know every shift in the room.
I know who belongs. I know who doesn’t. And I know exactly when something feels off.
Tonight, what feels off is Allison standing at the far end of the bar while some local asshole leans in too close with a smile that makes me want to break his teeth.
I notice him before I even register that I’ve turned in that direction.
Maybe because men like him all move the same when they think a pretty woman is cornered.
Too comfortable. Too sure of themselves.
One hand braced against the bar top like he’s boxing her in without being obvious about it, head tipped down, smile easy in a way that says he thinks whatever he’s offering should be welcomed.
Maybe because Allison’s shoulders are just a little too stiff. Or maybe because I’ve spent years noticing her before I mean to.
Probably that one.
I’m halfway through a conversation with Blaze near the office door when my focus slides clean off whatever he’s saying and lands there instead.
Allison’s in jeans and a fitted black tank tonight, her hair down over her shoulders in long waves that catch the low light every time she turns her head.
She’s not working. I know that much right away, because if she were on shift she’d be behind the bar instead of standing in front of it with a vodka soda in one hand and that polite, closed-off smile she gets when she’s trying to fend a man off without making a scene.
The guy doesn’t seem to be taking the hint. He says something.
She answers.
I can’t hear the words over the music, but I don’t need to. I know what I’m looking at.
Local. Late twenties maybe. Clean-cut in a way that means he probably thinks that counts for a lot around here. Too much confidence. Not enough sense.
He leans in farther.
My jaw goes tight.
Blaze follows my line of sight and huffs a quiet laugh. “That look usually means somebody’s about to have a bad night.”
I don’t answer him. Because I’m already moving.
I don’t think about it first. That’s the problem. If I took the extra second to think, maybe I’d realize Allison’s a grown woman who doesn’t need me stepping in every time some idiot looks at her too long.
Maybe I’d remember that I have no right to care who talks to her unless he puts his hands on her or she asks for help.
Maybe I’d remember that the last thing I need is another moment where I act like I have some kind of claim over Torch’s daughter just because my body goes hard and hot every time another man notices her.
Instead, I’m across the floor before any of that shit catches up to me.
The guy sees me coming at about the same second Allison does.
Her eyes flick up. Something changes in her face, fast and hard enough that if I didn’t know her so well, I might miss it. Surprise first. Then annoyance. Then something else she smooths over before I can pin it down.
Too late.
I’m already there.
I stop beside her close enough that our shoulders nearly touch, then look straight at the man like he’s a problem waiting to be solved.
“You need something?” I ask. My voice comes out flat. Harder than it should.
The guy straightens a little, trying to decide whether he’s got enough backbone to push this. “All good,” he says, with the kind of grin men use when they’re pretending they weren’t doing exactly what they were doing. “Just talking.”
“Looks like you’re done now.”
Allison sucks in a quiet breath beside me.
The man’s expression shifts, enough irritation bleeding through that I know he’s stupid as well as pushy. “Didn’t realize she needed a babysitter.”
I smile at him then, and that’s probably the point where he should’ve started backing up. “Didn’t realize you needed me to explain how this works.”
He glances at Allison, maybe hoping she’ll save him from the hole he just dug for himself. “I was only being friendly.”
“No,” I say. “You were being annoying.”
He lets out a short laugh like he thinks we’re in some kind of pissing contest. “She can tell me that herself.”
“She doesn’t have to.”
That does it.
The guy’s eyes narrow. “Who the hell are you?”
Before I can answer, Allison cuts in. “He owns the place,” she says coolly, and there’s enough edge in her tone to make the guy shift again, though I can’t tell if it’s because she’s irritated with him or with me. “And you were, in fact, being annoying.”
He looks between us once, recognition finally settling in where common sense should’ve been from the start.
Then he mutters, “Didn’t mean anything by it,” and backs off with the universal expression of a man who knows when a situation is no longer worth the effort.
I watch him go anyway, because I don’t trust him not to turn around and mouth off one more time.
He doesn’t.
Good.
The second he disappears toward the tables, the heat of Allison beside me goes sharp instead of steady.
I know that feeling too.
She’s pissed. “Really?” she asks.
I turn my head.
She’s looking at me with one brow raised and her lips parted just enough to show the irritation there before she says another word. Her drink is still in her hand, condensation damp against her fingers, and her whole body is angled toward me now instead of the bar.
“What?” I ask, even though I know exactly what.
Her laugh is short and humorless. “That was subtle.”
I glance back toward where the guy went. “Didn’t need subtle.”
She stares at me for half a second like she can’t decide if she wants to yell or throw her drink at my face. Then she sets the glass on the bar with a sharp click. “You do know I could’ve handled that myself, right?”
I keep my expression neutral, because there is no answer to that question that doesn’t make this worse. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”
“No, you just stomped over here like he was about to drag me into a back alley.”
“He was in your space.”
She folds her arms. “So?”
“So I moved him out of it.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then she leans in slightly, just enough to keep her voice low. “You were there for all of fifteen seconds before you decided I needed to be rescued.”
I can feel Blaze’s attention from across the room even though I don’t look his way. Probably half the bar noticed, because subtle has never exactly been my best quality when Allison’s involved and some other man is too close.
That thought pisses me off too.
I lower my voice to match hers. “Allie.”
Her eyes flash.
That one word always lands between us harder than it should. Familiar. Soft at the edges. Dangerous for reasons I have no intention of examining too closely in a place this public.
“Don’t ‘Allie’ me like I’m being dramatic,” she says.
I should walk away. I know I should. Tell her I was looking out for her, tell her to have a good night, get the fuck back to what I was doing before this turned into a scene.
Instead, because I apparently enjoy making my own life harder, I lean one hip against the bar and look down at her. “I’m not saying you’re dramatic.”
“You implied it.”
“I said the guy was too close.”
“You mean you decided the guy was too close.”
“Same difference.”
Her mouth parts slightly, then presses into a line.
No.
Not same difference.
I can see that in her face immediately.
Because to her, I just told her I get to make that call. And maybe the worst part is that some ugly, possessive corner of me thinks I should.
I hate that about myself. I hate it more because it’s her.
She shakes her head once and reaches for her drink again. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re welcome.”
That gets me a look sharp enough to flay skin. “I did not thank you.”
“No. Figured that out.”
“Then why are you acting like I should?”
I don’t have a good answer, so I do what I always do when I’m too close to saying something I shouldn’t. I default to irritation. “Because he was bothering you.”
She laughs again, and this time there’s actual disbelief in it. “You don’t even know what he was saying.”
“He was bothering you.”
“Maybe I was just being polite.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have to be.”
That lands.
I see it hit her before she can hide it.
Her expression shifts, just a little. The anger doesn’t leave, but something underneath it changes shape. Softer. More dangerous.
Like I said the wrong right thing.
Jesus Christ.
We stare at each other for one stretched second too long.
The music keeps going. A server laughs somewhere behind us. Glass breaks near the back, followed by somebody cursing and another voice calling for a broom. Ambrosia keeps moving around us because places like this never stop for one private fight.
But right here at the bar, it feels too still. Too focused.
Then Allison drags in a breath and steps back half an inch, enough to put space where there shouldn’t have been any in the first place. “You always do this,” she says.
I frown. “Do what?”
“This.” She gestures between us with the hand not holding her drink. “You only ever act like this when some guy notices me.”
I go still. Because she’s wrong. And because she’s not.
I don’t answer fast enough, so she keeps going.
“It’s like you don’t even see me until somebody else does.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
But the denial comes out too fast. Too hard.
Her eyes narrow slightly, and I know she heard it.
Heard what’s under it.