6. Shay #2
Because that’s exactly what I’m doing. That’s the whole point. If it’s just columns, then Mateo is just a line item. If it’s just a business plan, then I’m not a scared omega sitting in a borrowed shirt three feet from the alpha who put a permanent mark on my neck.
I flatten my palms on the bar, trying to keep the conversation on solid ground. “People are people, and payroll is payroll. You can’t save everybody if you lose the bar.”
Declan pushes off his stool. He doesn’t move fast—that would be easier to react to. He just unfolds, slow and broad and suddenly very tall, the bar towel slipping from his shoulder to land in one of his big hands. He starts wiping down a clean patch of the counter.
“You think I don’t know that?” His voice is low.
“I think you’re acting like the numbers will get their feelings hurt if you look at them.”
The rag stops moving. “And I think,” he says, his voice dropping even quieter, “you’re acting like this is just about numbers because you’re scared it might not be.”
Oh.
There it is. The unspoken thing, laid out on the bar between us like a bill I can’t pay. He didn’t say us. He didn’t mention the bite, or last night, or the fact I’m wearing his shirt like a walking, talking surrender flag. He didn’t have to.
“That’s a reach,” I manage, my own voice sounding thin.
“Is it?”
He isn’t angry. He isn’t even challenging me, not really. He’s just standing there, patient, letting me squirm. It’s infuriating.
I push my stool back, the legs scraping hard against the floor, and get to my feet. “We’re talking about staffing.”
“We were,” he agrees.
“Mateo is on the payroll three nights you don’t need him.”
“He’s twenty,” Declan says, his eyes fixed on my face. “He’s putting himself through community college.”
My mouth opens, then closes. Damn it.
“Okay,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “That’s a factor. It doesn’t change the math.”
“No. But it changes what the math means.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You can’t run a business on guilt.”
“I don’t,” he says, and his expression hardens just slightly. For a second, I think he’s finally going to snap. He’s an alpha. He’s bigger than me. This is his bar, his life, his problem.
But he just looks at me. That’s all. With those tired green eyes that see way too much.
“You came in here this morning,” he says, his voice perfectly level, “wearing my shirt, and told me to pretend last night never happened. You set the terms. I’m trying to stick to them.”
My stomach twists. “Then try harder.”
A humorless smile touches his mouth. “You want a professional opinion? Fine. You’re right.
We can’t keep every shift exactly as it is.
We’ll look at the schedule. We’ll see where we can move things.
But I’m not gutting the people who helped me build this place because a spreadsheet says it’s clean. ”
The word lands like a slap.
Because he’s right. Because he sounds like he means it, like he actually gives a shit about some kid named Mateo enough to stand here and fight me over three shifts a week.
He cares enough about Tessa and Diego and all the rest of them that the idea of cutting them makes his jaw tighten and his eyes go hard.
It would be so much easier if he were just another alpha. The kind my mother collected. The kind who talked a big game about loyalty and taking care of what’s theirs, right up until the moment it actually cost them something.
Declan is willing to pay. For some kid who works three shifts a week. That’s not just stupid, it’s unfair.
“You’re being impossible,” I say, the words tight in my throat.
He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me, and the silence is worse than arguing. “And you’re hiding behind a spreadsheet,” he says finally.
“I’m not hiding. I’m giving you a solution.”
“No.” He takes a step toward the end of the bar, closer to me. “You’re scared.”
I should laugh. I should say something about his hero complex or his refusal to face facts. I should pack up my laptop and walk out, tell him to find another consultant who’ll coddle him.
Instead, I just stand here. “You don’t know me.”
The look on his face changes. It doesn’t soften, not exactly. It just gets… clearer. Like he’s seeing right through the bullshit I’ve layered on top. “I want to.”
No. Not allowed. My body betrays me first, as always. The flush of heat that rises in my chest. His nostrils flare slightly. He notices, of course he does. He notices the panic before I can even name it.
I make a move for my papers on the bar, a stupid, useless gesture.
He moves faster.
One second he’s a few feet away, the next the whole world is the solid wall of his chest. He’s right in front of me, his shadow falling over my hands. I back up on instinct, and my hip hits the edge of the bar. Trapped.
He plants his palms on the wood on either side of me.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to.
He’s just… there. A solid wall of heat and muscle blocking out the light, caging me in.
There’s enough room to duck under his arm.
I could shove him. I could tell him to get out of my space, and the worst part is, I know he would. He’d just step back and wait.
The air between us is warm from his skin. I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, and my own skin prickles, anticipating a touch that isn’t coming. The neat columns of my spreadsheet blur into useless white rectangles.
“This isn’t about the money, Shay.” His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through the air and settles deep in my stomach.
My breath hitches. “Everything is about money.” It comes out sounding thin, desperate.
“No.” He leans in just a fraction, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. The muscles in his throat work as he swallows. “It isn’t.”
The bite on my neck burns.
His gaze drops to it. Just for a second. It’s not the possessive, hungry look I’m used to, the kind I know how to fight.
It’s something quieter. Something that looks horribly like care.
I’d rather he looked hungry. Hunger I can understand. This is dangerous.
The way his jaw works, the faint tic of muscle under his beard. I want to put my mouth right there, on his throat, and feel that pulse jump against my teeth. I want him to press me back against this bar until I can’t breathe, until there’s nothing in my head but the solid, grounding weight of him.
“You’re crowding me,” I say, the words tight.
He goes still for a second. Then he just… moves back. No argument, no challenge. He just gives me the space I said I wanted.
And a sick, stupid panic lurches in my gut.
“Don’t,” I hear myself say.
Declan stops, halfway through a retreat. He watches me, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Just waiting.
Fuck. I’ve got nothing. My brain is just a loop of closer and get away.
“It’s manipulative,” I try, scrambling for a reason. “To just do whatever I say.”
A muscle jumps in his cheek. “Okay.”
“Stop being so reasonable.”
“What do you want me to be, Shay?” His voice is quiet. Too quiet.
The answer is right there, big and ugly and impossible.
I want to stop being so fucking tired. I want his hands on me.
I want him to tell me what to do for five whole minutes so I don’t have to think.
I want to be held so tightly there’s no room for doubt.
I want him to look at my spreadsheets and tell me I’m good at this.
I want to save his stupid bar. I want to stay.
I want. And that’s the whole goddamn problem.
He can’t see that. I won’t let him.
So I do the only thing I can. I move first.
I duck under his arm. He lets me, of course he does. The moment I’m clear, I turn and drop to my knees in front of him.
The wood floor is cool through the denim of my jeans. My pulse hammers in the fresh mark on my neck. Declan doesn’t move. He just stands there, one hand still braced on the bar, looking down at me.
From here, he’s enormous. Jeans pulled taut over thick thighs, the dark fabric of his henley stretched across his chest. The air around him is warmer, heavier, and my skin tingles with the nearness of him.
The hard ridge of his cock presses against his fly, right at eye level, and my mouth goes dry.
I remember the weight of him in my hand last night, the way he felt when I squeezed.
His eyes are dark, the green almost gone. “Shay.”
Just my name. A warning. A question.
I give him a smile that feels sharp enough to cut. “You wanted to talk about assets?”
My hand covers the bulge in his jeans. He’s already hard, the heat of him soaking through the denim into my palm. I squeeze, feeling the solid thickness of him jump against my fingers, and a low sound gets caught in the back of his throat.
He sucks in a sharp breath. I heard it.
But the victory I’m supposed to feel never shows up. Instead, as my fingers tighten, something inside me just… gives. Not breaks. Opens. A terrifying, hollow space right in the center of my chest.
I keep my chin tipped up, forcing the challenge. My thumb strokes the ridge of his cock through the fabric.
“Let’s renegotiate.”
“Terms are simple,” I say, because my brain has apparently decided to run this like a hostile negotiation. “You don’t get to talk.”
A corner of Declan’s mouth lifts. That’s all. Not even a real smile, but it’s enough to make my teeth ache.
“You’re serious,” he says, his voice gone low and rough.
“Dead serious.” I give the hard ridge of his cock a squeeze through his jeans. His hips jerk forward, a sharp, involuntary movement he catches a second too late.
The air between us goes thick. My body answers like it’s been waiting for the signal, slick already soaking through my underwear.
Fantastic.
“I’m proposing,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not one deep breath away from forgetting my own name, “that you shut up and let me work.”