Redemption (Clover-Hills #2)

Prologue

The bartender–Tim, I think, looks like he wants to throttle me.

The longer I linger at Buddies’, the more obvious it becomes.

My drinks vanish faster, my mood tanks harder.

For my last drink of the night, I request a margarita.

I’m pretty sure he gives me the equivalent pour to dishwater with lime.

I plan on slipping out before I’m not able to find my way home.

It’s just me, Tim, and Mr. Sanders drinking his fourth cup of coffee at the end of the bar.

Or, it was. I glance sideways when the chair two seats down scrapes against the ground, and a man sits, smelling faintly of whiskey and mint.

I must be staring longer than deemed polite, because he turns, and his gaze clashes with mine.

Blue eyes. Broad shoulders. Freshly shaven face, and long, loose curls that frame his face perfectly.

Shit. He is beautiful. And I recognize him.

“Wyatt?” I blurt the name, wishing I could shove my face in my glass and just drown in it.

“Whitney,” he replies in cool surprise. I notice he doesn’t need to tell the bartender what he wants before a glass is slid in front of him.

I guess that’s the perk of your brother being the bar owner.

Wyatt and I have always known each other because we grew up around the same people.

Except for the occasional hello or polite nod in passing, we don’t interact much.

Blake Warner, my closest and oldest friend, is practically a Conway herself.

It’d be impossible to know one and not the other.

Blake and Wyatt’s brother, Wesley, were attached at the hip when they were kids.

Their parents are best friends and practically raised the three of them together.

Wyatt is older than me, by about five years or so.

He doesn't cast another glance in my direction.

Rather, he goes right back to facing forward.

I watch as his knuckles curl around the short glass–the dark, amber liquid sloshing as he lifts it.

Wyatt takes a long pull of his whiskey, watching the TV above the bar with a rapt fascination.

A lacrosse game flies across the screen, but something tells me he doesn't care much for the sport.

I also find that I don't like the lack of attention this man is giving me.

“I started this morning,” I blurt, tipping my drink towards him. “How ‘bout you?”

His gaze roams over me, slowly and painfully, and I can’t tell if he’s checking me out, or trying to figure out why the hell I’m talking to him. Maybe both. “You’re not going to stop talking, are you?”

Definitely trying to figure out why I’m talking to him. “What’s your damage?” I ask, taking a sip. It’s not rude, just blunt. I’ve tiptoed around enough bullshit this week, and I’m over it.

His drink pauses halfway to his mouth, and his nose flares in irritation. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “It’s seven p.m. on a weekday. You’re awfully grumpy. You’re too pretty to be here alone so…” I glance around like I’m doing the math in my head. “What was it? Bad date? Did she tell you your personality is as dry as dirt?”

He shocks me when he smirks behind the rim of his glass, pivoting his body so that it’s fully turned towards mine. He doesn’t acknowledge the dig I’ve thrown at him. His only response is, “You think I’m pretty?”

My eyes trail the way he licks his lips, and I hate that his smirk only widens when he catches it.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” I say, turning away from him.

Now I’m the one who doesn’t want a conversation.

Today has been a disaster and adding a bar fight to the list is not how I want to end it.

But Wyatt cocks his head, amusement and something else bubbling in his eyes. “What’s your damage then?”

“What?” I whip my head back, blinking. He just stares at me, as if expecting me to explain the shitstorm that is my life.

Maybe it’s the liquid courage, or the desire to spill all my secrets into his blue eyes, but I relinquish.

I glance at the ceiling and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Mommy issues. Ex-boyfriend issues. Take your pick.”

“Therapy’s a thing,” Wyatt mutters under his breath. My gaze narrows on him. He really is kind of a dick. Either that, or his social skills suck. Feeling the need to prove a point, I say, “I walked in on him sleeping with his assistant. Three times. Probably should’ve left after the first.”

“Probably.” He agrees, voice less than impressed. “What made it take the third time?”

I scoff, letting my eyes skim over him. “You really wanna know?” He just nods, all quiet curiosity. “He made her dress up like me.”

“What?” Wyatt’s laugh bursts free—sharp and surprised.

And from the way he quickly clears his throat, it’s clear he didn’t mean to let it slip.

But it’s so low, so rich, and it curls around my insides like it belongs there.

So at odds with how he greeted me. “You’re joking,” he adds, brows raised like he doesn’t quite believe it.

“Wig. Makeup,” I nod, like I’m still trying to convince myself it isn’t a fabricated piece of my mind.

“I’m pretty sure she was wearing my red lingerie, too.

He was even moaning Whitney.” A horrified shiver racks my body when I utter the last sentence.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wear red lace again. ”

“That’s a shame about the lingerie.”

“Why?”

“Because red looks good on you.” He shoots a pointed look at the red top I’m wearing. My face heats, in both embarrassment and confusion. So first, he doesn’t want to talk to me. Then, he’s asking me questions. And now? Now, he’s hitting on me. Talk about whiplash.

“You’re a flirt.”

“You’re a talker.”

With our eyes locked, we’ve entered into a silent staring contest. The longer I look at him, I realize just how much he and his brother resemble each other.

I can’t help but wonder if he favors his mother’s looks more or his father’s.

I think about asking, but it's Wyatt who breaks the silence first. “What did you do?”

I shake my head slowly, wiping away previous thoughts. I smile like the damn Cheshire Cat. “I threw a lamp at his head.”

“Seems like a reasonable reaction.” Wyatt says, tipping his head. “He also sounds like the kind of douchebag who has a suit for every day of the week.”

“You’d be correct.” I lift the corner of my mouth, letting the confirmation hang in the air.

“Really?” he asks, half laughing.

“Mondays were blue, Tuesdays were gray, Wednesday–”

“That’s…” he interrupts, shaking his head with a grimace.

“Spoiled? Entitled? Completely and utterly insane?” I finish for him. He chuckles under his breath, and then pushes to his feet and moves to the chair beside me. He’s so close that I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. “And the mommy issues?”

This man is patient. That’s what I’ve learned in the past four hours that we’ve been talking over drinks and fries.

Drinks that have gotten better since Wyatt Conway decided that I was worth a conversation.

He listens. Not in that half nodding and half waiting for his turn kind of way, but with genuine focus.

He only asks questions when necessary, and never interrupts.

He watches me for most of it, in a way no one ever has.

Like he’s hanging onto every word and still wanting more.

When Wyatt jumps behind the bar and starts pouring shots for us, I know I’m in for a dreadful hangover tomorrow.

But I don’t care, because this, this is exactly how I need to end a day like today.

He talks to me about his father—what he was like growing up, and how it affected him when he passed.

I tell him about both of my parents. We swap childhood memories.

Talk about what we want out of life, and how we can achieve it.

His jaw visibly tightens when I finish telling him about my parents. He doesn’t try to comfort me with useless words. He just mutters, “Maybe your final stage of healing is telling them to fuck off.”

“Maybe.” I let out a tired laugh. I can feel my energy draining, the reality of not just today, but the past few years caving in. Wyatt’s quick to catch it, and a handsome smirk lights up his face. It doesn’t look forced, though. “How about we play a game?” he asks.

I blink. “A… game?”

“Yeah.” He props one of his elbows on the bar top. But his eyes have sharpened with something else. Something that makes my body heat and my pulse skip.

“What does the winner get?”

“If I win, you get to kiss me.” Wyatt leans in, so close that his whiskey covered breath brushes against mine.

His arm reaches out, and my body jolts as he tugs the barstool closer to him.

My knees bump into his and the heat between us flares.

God, am I seriously flirting with Wyatt?

Wyatt Conway? The Conway brothers are practically royalty in this town.

Getting tangled up with one of them sounds like enough trouble to last me a lifetime.

But… I’m surprised to find I don’t care.

Not even a little bit. “How about you just kiss me?” I blurt, voice catching on the last word.

“You always this bad at games?” he rasps, eyes flicking between mine and my mouth.

“If it means you get to kiss me? Sure.”

And he does.

God, he does.

Right there in the bar, until long after the lights dim.

The bar has emptied, and even Mr. Sanders has gone home for the night.

He kisses me in the alleyway, pressed against the brick wall, eagerly nipping and biting at every inch of exposed skin.

And later, in my apartment, with the door half-open and the town quiet outside, our clothes hit the floor while he kisses me like he means every second of it.

Little did I know just how quickly my entire world will get flipped upside down, and Wyatt won’t be a part of it.