Chapter Fourteen
Ben
The bar finally empties out, but it’s not soon enough. My head’s been pounding since the moment I woke up this morning, and every minute after that just made it worse. Too much noise, too much small talk, too much pretending I’m fine when all I’ve wanted all damn day is to get the hell out of here.
I toss the rag onto the bar and wave at the last guy lingering by the door. He gives me a lazy salute before stepping out into the night, and I lock up behind him, flipping the sign. The silence hits hard, a little too loud in my ears.
Paige was next door all day—I knew it. I didn’t have to see her to know.
I could feel it in the back of my mind like static, like a hum under my skin.
I could’ve gone over there during the lull midafternoon.
Could’ve made up some bullshit excuse about checking on the wiring or the lease or whatever.
But I didn’t. I stayed behind the bar, busying myself with taps and inventory and customers.
At one point, Jason swung by, grabbing a beer before heading out.
He was in a decent mood at first, but the longer he sat there, the more his smile faded.
He asked me what my problem was, why I was acting like I’d swallowed glass, and I brushed him off with some crap about being tired.
The look he gave me said he didn’t buy it.
And why would he? I’m standing there, lying straight to my best friend’s face, knowing the reason for my foul mood is the one thing I can never tell him. The guilt sat in my gut like lead for the rest of the night.
Truth is, I’m a coward.
I grab my keys, my jacket, shut down the last of the lights, and head out the back door into the cool night air. My shoulders ache from the long day, but it’s nothing compared to the knot in my gut. Disgust at myself sits heavy, sour.
When I round the corner toward my truck, my eyes flick automatically to the bakery windows. No light. Not even a soft glow in the back. She’s gone.
I tell myself she probably just turned in early.
She’s been working nonstop. But I know better.
If she had early-morning prep tomorrow, she’d still be in there now, music low, hair pulled back, paintbrush in hand.
She’s not there because she doesn’t want to give me the chance to wander in again. Doesn’t want to see me.
And maybe I deserve that.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about her. All goddamn day, every time my hands weren’t moving, my head went back to last night.
The fight, sure, but before that, too. Her skin under my palms, warm and impossibly soft.
The faint scent of paint clinging to her from hours of work, mixing with the clean, sweet smell of her conditioner when I buried myself in her tight pussy.
I grip the steering wheel a little too tightly before I start the engine. The image of her—head tipped back, lips parted on a moan, eyes locked on mine—burns behind my eyelids. I should want to forget. I should make myself forget.
But I don’t.
The drive home is short, but it feels longer with my head throbbing in time with the traffic lights.
Every stop is a spike of irritation, every turn a reminder that my shoulders are locked up tight.
By the time I pull into my driveway, the glow from the dashboard feels like it’s searing straight through my eyes.
I kill the engine and just sit there for a second, gripping the steering wheel, willing the pounding in my skull to ease up. It doesn’t. If anything, it digs in deeper, like my brain’s trying to beat its way out.
Inside, the house is dark and still. I don’t bother turning on more than one lamp in the living room—anything brighter feels like it might split my head in two.
I kick off my boots, drop my keys in the bowl by the door, and make my way to the kitchen.
A couple of painkillers, a tall glass of water, and I lean against the counter, eyes shut.
The silence should help, but it doesn’t. My mind’s still loud. Every thought circles back to her. To Paige.
I try to focus on the cool glass in my hand, my breathing, but it’s useless. She’s there behind my eyes—the curve of her shoulder, the way she pressed closer when she laughed, the taste of her still lingering in my memory like I could call it back if I just let myself.
I drag a hand over my face and push away from the counter, heading for the bedroom. The clock says it’s barely past 1:00, but it feels like I’ve been on my feet for days. I strip off my shirt, drop it in the hamper, and collapse onto the bed without bothering with the lights.
The painkillers will kick in soon, I tell myself. I’ll sleep. I’ll wake up and this headache—and everything else—will feel less sharp.
But I know better. I know when I close my eyes, it won’t be darkness I see. It’ll be her.