Chapter 5
I manage to avoid Will for an entire week.
A personal record, honestly. Sure, I spotted him once or twice from my window—ball cap low, boots dusty, looking like the walking embodiment of every thought I’ve tried to bury.
But still, no contact. No run-ins. No smirking glances or conversations that leave me rattled for hours.
But there’s no dodging him tonight. Not when I’m supposed to meet Trey at Flowers End at nine.
Nerves churning, I grab my phone and text the one person I know won’t judge me no matter what I say.
Tish Garcia
Hey. Are you busy?
For my favorite BHC gal? Never!
What’s up?
I’m about to go on a date and I’m kind of freaking out.
After Sam and Charlie got back together, I wound up becoming friends with Charlie’s ride-or-die, Tish. She’s sharp, loyal, and somehow always knows when to talk me down. She knows just about everything there is to know about my mess of a history.
Except the little secret I’ve never had the guts to say out loud, but Missy Jones proudly blurted in front of Will. The fact that I’m still holding on to my V-card like it’s a family heirloom, and haven’t been kissed enough times to count on both hands.
Ooooh. Who’s the lucky guy?
His name’s Trey. We went to high school together.
Reconnected last weekend.
But I haven’t done this in forever, and my brain is short-circuiting.
Oh, babe. Deep breaths. Just go in with an open mind and have fun. You don’t owe anyone anything except showing up as your brilliant, beautiful self.
And just like that, I exhale. Because if there’s one person who can make me believe I’ve got this, it’s Tish.
Show me what you’re wearing.
I snap a photo and send it. I’m pretty proud of the outfit and how my curvy body is on full display.
Girl! You’re going to have him eating out of your hands!
I smile at the screen, but it doesn’t quite reach. Because the truth is I didn’t put this outfit together with Trey in mind.
No, I chose the black top because it hugs me in all the right places, and I remember Will once said he loves black.
The lace skirt? It’s flirty without trying too hard, and something about it made me think of the way his eyes drop when I wear anything soft and feminine.
The boots were a splurge, and maybe I told myself it was for the date but deep down, I just want to walk into Flowers End with my head high and legs longer.
I want Will to see me. And want me. God, that’s pathetic, isn’t it?
My dark hair’s pulled up in a high ponytail, sleek and high enough to make me feel bold.
My makeup is sultry. Smoky eyes, a kiss of gloss, and just enough highlight to catch the light when I tilt my chin.
I don’t just look good. I look like the version of myself I want to be tonight: confident, untouchable, fine.
With a slow, steadying breath, I grab my bag, square my shoulders, and head out the door to meet Trey at the bar.
He’s already there, leaning casually against the brick wall outside Flowers End, his hands in his pockets. When he spots me, he lets out a low whistle, eyes widening with something close to awe.
“You look stunning, Phern.”
I smile, letting the compliment settle on my skin. “You clean up nice yourself.”
And he does. Trey’s in dark jeans and a crisp, fitted button-up that brings out the gold in his hair. It’s slicked back just enough to look intentional without trying too hard, and his cologne curls pleasantly in the warm night air.
But it’s not Will. There’s no static charge. No heat curling low in my stomach. No sharp inhale that makes me forget how to breathe.
Trey holds out his hand, easy and charming. “Ready?”
I slip my hand into his and smile. “Yup.”
We walk toward the door, our fingers linked, but I can’t help the way my pulse flutters. Not from nerves. From the possibility that someone else might be on the other side of that door.
Inside, Flowers End is alive. It’s packed wall-to-wall with familiar faces and the hum of a Friday night in full swing. Laughter spills over the twang of a country song playing low on the speakers, and the air smells like beer, smoke, and someone’s bad perfume.
People call my name as we walk through. Faces I’ve known since I was knee-high and barefoot, asking for soda in a beer glass.
I smile, wave, offer the occasional “Hey, good to see you,” but Trey doesn’t stop.
He keeps his hand on the small of my back like he’s leading me through a storm, steady and sure.
He finds us a high-top table tucked in the back corner that’s half-shadowed and quieter. A little bubble just for us.
“Want anything to drink?” he asks, sliding into the chair across from me.
I nod, brushing a strand of hair back behind my ear. “Beer’s fine.”
“Beer it is. Be right back.”
I watch him move through the crowd, weaving between high-top tables and dancing boots. His shoulders are relaxed, easy, and for a second, I let myself wonder what it would feel like to let go of everything else and let a guy like Trey be enough.
But then I see where he’s headed.
Will’s behind the bar, pouring a drink, jaw tight, forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. I don’t think he’s seen me yet—or maybe he has, and he’s doing what he does best: pretending I’m not there.
Trey says something. Will doesn’t smile.
A minute later, Trey’s back, setting two beers and a short glass with something amber and mysterious between us.
“Here.” He nudges the glass toward me.
I arch a brow. “What’s this?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. Will said it was for you to try.”
Ah.
So he did see me.
I lift the glass, swirl it once, then take a sip. It’s smoky, smooth, with a bite that burns just enough.
Across the bar, Will’s watching me.
His eyes lock on mine, unreadable but there’s something simmering there. Something sharp and knowing. I shake my head slowly, more amused than annoyed. His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.
Then Trey’s voice cuts through the moment.
“So, I heard you moved out of the ranch,” he says, drawing my attention back to the table. “How’s that going?”
I blink, setting the glass down carefully. “It’s going,” I say, trying to summon my usual humor. “I’m renting the apartment above Knot and Spur.” I snort. “At least it doesn’t reek of patchouli anymore every time I walk in.”
Trey chuckles. “Her cousin, right? I remember that guy. Total hippie.”
“Totally,” I agree with a smirk.
He laughs louder at that, and I join him, but the sound feels distant. Like my body’s here with Trey but part of me is still back at the bar, locked in a silent exchange with the man who poured me a drink like it was a message. And maybe it was.
But Will isn’t who I’m here with, no matter how much I wish he was. So, I dive all in with Trey, trying to make a connection with him.
Trey leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his beer bottle dangling from his fingers. His eyes flick over my face, lingering just a beat too long to be casual.
“You know,” he says, voice dipping, “you were always cute in high school, but now? Damn, Phern. You’re kind of blowing me away.”
I laugh lightly, even though part of me winces. Not because it’s not sweet. It is. Trey’s good-looking, good-natured, and clearly trying. But something about the compliment feels like it’s missing its mark. Like he’s aiming for my shoulder when the real bruise is somewhere deeper.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip of the drink Will sent over. “You’re not looking too bad yourself.”
Trey grins. “I know this is just catching up, but if it goes well tonight, I wouldn’t hate a second date.”
I blink, surprised by the sudden boldness, but before I can answer—
“Need anything else over here?”
That voice. That drawl…
I look up, and Will’s standing at the edge of our table, towel over his shoulder, one brow lifted like he owns the place, which I guess he technically does. He’s got that maddening calm about him, like nothing ever rattles him, even when it clearly does.
He doesn’t look at Trey. Just me.
And when his eyes drop to the untouched beer, then flick to where my hand rests in Trey’s, something shifts behind his expression.
“No, we’re good,” Trey says, his tone polite but clipped.
Will doesn’t move. “That drink okay?” he asks me, still only looking at me.
I nod slowly, fingers tracing the rim of the glass. “It’s strong. Not something I’d usually like.”
His gaze dips, just for a second, to the low neckline of my black shirt before it finds my eyes again. “Really? Seems to me you need strong things.”
Heat licks at my face and swirls deep in my stomach. Is he insinuating what I think he is?
Trey clears his throat. “Hey, uh, what is this, anyway? Whiskey?”
Will finally, finally looks at him.
“It’s mezcal,” he says. “Smoky. Bold. Acquired taste.”
Then his eyes cut back to me.
“I’ll check on y’all in a bit.”
And just like that, he turns and walks off—leaving silence in his wake like the echo of a slammed door.
Trey lets out a low whistle. “So… you and Will. Were you ever a thing?”
I laugh once, short and hollow. “Definitely not.”
Trey studies me for a long moment, his thumb brushing the label on his beer bottle.
“Just seemed like there was a vibe between you two.”
I shrug, trying for casual. “Small town. Long history.”
“That kind of history,” he says, “usually comes with scars or stories. Or both.”
I meet his eyes, and for a second, I think about telling him the truth. That Will isn’t just a chapter I already closed. He’s the chapter I keep rereading, even though it hurts every time.
But instead, I just smile. “You don’t strike me as someone afraid of a few stories.”
He grins, leans in. “I’m not.”
And then just like that he’s close. His knee knocks gently into mine under the table. It’s smooth, slow, clearly practiced. Trey’s a good guy. He smells nice, looks great, and he’s trying.
But when he leans in a little more, like he might kiss me I hesitate.
And that hesitation is everything. Because I’m not thinking about Trey’s lips or his hand on my shoulder.