Chapter 3 #2
My body reacts before I can stop it. Heat pools in my chest, and I press the book tighter against myself, trying to breathe through it.
This is ridiculous. They’re my friends.
I flip a page. The heroine is falling apart in the hero’s arms, and I want to throw the book across the room. I close it instead, drop it onto the coffee table, and stand. Maybe tea will help.
The kettle takes forever. I stare out the window while it heats, the moon hanging low over the water. The reflection catches on the glass, silver light spilling across the counter. Everything feels quiet again. Too quiet.
Nimbus hops onto the counter, tail swishing, staring at me like he knows exactly what kind of mess I am tonight.
“Don’t judge,” I tell him. “You’ve never had hormones like this.”
He meows, unimpressed, and knocks the magnet off the fridge with one paw.
I laugh despite myself, scoop it up, and stick it back. My hand brushes the note again, the ink smudged slightly where one of them must have touched it after washing dishes.
The kettle clicks off. I pour the water, add a tea bag, and stand there holding the mug between both hands, breathing in the steam.
It’s late, but I’m not tired. I should be after a day like this, after seeing Shepard and trying not to think about him, after having Maddox and Liam sprawled on my floor like temptation with controllers. But my body refuses to relax.
I wander toward the window again. Outside, the streetlights cast long shadows across the empty road.
Nimbus curls up on the couch, already asleep. I sip my tea and stare at nothing for a long time, wondering when everything started to feel so complicated.
It used to be easy—work, home, friends, repeat. Then Liam had to go and ruin the simple parts by being kind when I needed it most. Then Maddox came along with that smile that looks like trouble and a heart that’s too damn big for his chest.
And now here I am, fighting off thoughts that make my skin too warm and my breath too shallow.
It’s almost one when I give up pretending I’m tired.
The book on my lap hasn’t moved in twenty minutes, and the tea on the table has gone cold.
Nimbus is asleep on the couch, paws twitching like he’s chasing ghosts.
I stand, grab my denim jacket from the hook, and tell myself a night out isn’t the worst idea.
The air outside tastes like salt and leftover rain. The street’s empty, just the sound of the ocean in the distance. I open the ride-share app, type in Bar 2.0, and wait for the little car icon to move.
The driver shows up ten minutes later, an older woman with sleepy eyes and a travel mug of coffee. The drive down to the cliffs takes less than ten minutes.
The bar’s parking lot is full, headlights cutting through the fog. Music and laughter spill out each time the door opens. Inside, the air hits me warm and thick with beer, fried food, and the faint sweetness of cologne.
Keith’s behind the counter, his hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos winding up his arms. He looks up and smiles. “Millie Harper. Didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Something fruity. Not too sweet.”
He nods, grabs a shaker, and starts mixing. “You want a table?”
“I’ll find one.”
He slides the glass toward me a minute later—a pink drink with lime and a sugar rim. “First one’s on me. You look like you need it.”
I grin. “You’re a saint, Keith.”
“Tell that to my ex-wife.”
I laugh and move toward the pool tables in the back. Only one’s in use. Someone’s already playing.
He’s tall—broad shoulders under a button-down the color of storm clouds, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His jeans fit just right, boots scuffed from real use. His movements are precise but unhurried, like the game answers to him.
He sinks a shot cleanly and straightens, noticing me for the first time.
“Sorry,” he says, voice low and smooth. “Didn’t know anyone else around here plays. Haven’t had a challenger since I got in.”
I take a sip of my drink, the sugar biting my tongue. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling competitive.”
He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s not used to being surprised. “You any good?”
“I can hold my own.”
He steps aside, offering me the cue. “Show me.”
When I pass by him, I catch the scent—leather, cedar, and something clean. My pulse skips.
The table’s slick, the felt new. I bend to line up a shot, conscious of his eyes on me. The ball cracks into another, both rolling into the pocket.
“Not bad,” he murmurs.
“Not bad yourself,” I say, straightening. “You new?”
“Something like that.”
“Brave.”
“Desperate’s more accurate.” His smile returns, faint but real. “You?”
“Born and raised. Left for a while. Came back for… reasons.”
“Good reasons?”
“Complicated ones.”
He nods like he understands that kind of answer. “I’m Knox, by the way.”
“Millie.”
We shake hands, and it’s ridiculous how aware I am of the warmth of his palm and the faint scrape of callused skin.
The game finds an easy rhythm. Between turns, he tells me he used to play in dive bars after work in New York, that pool’s quieter than most ways to unwind.
I tell him I read too many books and talk to my cat like he’s a person.
He doesn’t laugh at that—just says, “Cats are good judges of character.”
Somewhere between another drink and his third win, I forget the time.
When it’s my turn again, he moves closer, watching my aim. “You’re off by half an inch,” he says. “That’s why I keep beating you.”
“You think?”
He steps in behind me, his voice near my ear. “Here.”
His hand slides over mine, guiding the cue. His chest brushes my back, the heat of him wrapping around me. My breath catches.
“Like this,” he says, softer now. His tone isn’t teasing—it’s sure. Masculine. My fingers tighten on the cue, my heart tripping over itself.
I nod, even though I barely register the words. He’s taller—by a lot—and when he shifts his stance, I feel the outline of him against me. The ball hits, rolls, sinks.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
“Guess I had a good teacher.”
He steps back, but the air doesn’t cool between us. The scent of him lingers, warm and clean, threaded with something that makes every cell in my body lean closer. He’s an Alpha. I don’t need confirmation—the strength of his scent says enough.
We keep playing until the music slows and the crowd thins. At some point, the clock behind the bar hits two. People start filtering out, the noise tapering to murmurs.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Liam: Where are you?
I type quickly. Heading home soon.
When I look up, Knox’s eyes are on me again. The faintest smile curves his mouth.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. My roommate’s checking in.”
He nods. “Good roommate.”
“You have no idea,” I say under my breath. I grab my purse and finish the last of my drink. “It was really nice to meet you, Knox.”
“You too, Millie.”
At the counter, Keith’s tallying tabs. “You leaving already?”
“Yeah.”
“Next one’s on me too, if you bring the new guy back. You two made pool look like foreplay.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Goodnight, Keith.”
When I step outside, the cold hits sharp. I pull my jacket tighter, shivering. My phone screen glows—Your ride is 15 minutes away.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Should’ve driven.”
I shift from foot to foot, breath fogging in the air. Behind me, the bar door opens.
“You okay?” Knox’s voice again.
I turn. He’s in his jacket now, collar up, hands in his pockets.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just waiting. Small towns—apparently every driver’s asleep by midnight.”
“Wouldn’t know,” he says. “I’m from New York. Everything’s open till morning there.”
“Culture shock, huh?”
“Something like that.” He glances toward the empty street, then back to me. “Can I drop you off? Doesn’t feel right leaving you here alone.”
“That’s sweet, but my ride’s almost here.”
He studies me for a moment, then smiles. “It’s cold. At least wait in the car with me. You can see the headlights from there.”
I hesitate, then laugh. “You do realize how that sounds, right? I don’t even know your last name. For all I know, you could be a serial killer.”
“Really? Serial killer?”
“You could be.” I grin.
He grins, pulling his wallet from his pocket. “Fair point.” He hands me his ID. “See? Completely legitimate serial killer.”
The card’s real—Knox Hill, photo, birthday, New York City.
“At least you weren’t lying about the city,” I say, handing it back. “Thirty-three, huh? You don’t look it.”
He chuckles. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or a diss.”
“Diss? Okay, old man. And for the record, it’s both,” I say before I can stop myself.
He tilts his head. “How about you?”
I freeze. This night has been going on so great. I’m not sure why I dodge the question, though. Probably the thirteen-year age gap between us. “A gentleman never asks a lady her age.”
He laughs, the sound rich. “Fair enough. Can I ask for company, then?”
“That you can.”
We cross the lot together. His truck’s parked beneath a broken light, dark blue with a dusting of salt along the sides. He opens the passenger door for me. The interior smells like him—leather and cedar, a hint of spice.
He turns the ignition, the heater humming to life. “You sure this is okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Warmer than out there.”
He adjusts the vents toward me. “Does it usually take this long for rides around here?”
“Most nights.”
He leans back, fiddling with the radio. Static, then a country station, then something slow and quiet. His hand is on the dial longer than necessary.
He’s nervous. It hits me in the silence between us, the kind that hums rather than sits still.
“Knox?”
He glances over. “Mmh?”
“If I asked you to kiss me right now,” I say softly, “would you?”
His eyes lift to mine, caught somewhere between surprise and want. His voice drops. “That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’d actually let me.”
I smile, heart tripping, pulse in my throat. “Maybe.”
He laughs quietly, shakes his head, looks back at the windshield like he’s steadying himself. Outside, headlights sweep the road—finally, my ride.
I check my phone. “That’s me.”
He nods, the smile still tugging at his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to wait on that maybe.”
“Guess so.” I open the door, cold air rushing in. “Thanks for the warmth.”
“Anytime, Millie.”