Chapter 19 Delaney #2
Boone doesn’t do visible shock often. His control is ironclad, most days. But now, watching his eyes travel from my boots to the dress to my face, I see it. The silent, oh.
He swallows, throat working.
“You look…” He stops, shakes his head slightly like he’s trying to dislodge the right word. “Nice.”
Nice.
It should feel anticlimactic.
It doesn’t.
Not with the way he says it, a little rough, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s trying to convey.
“Thanks.”
“Seriously, though,” Silas adds, pushing off the doorway. “If any idiot at The Hollow gives you grief, send me a text, and I’ll show up in my most intimidating shirt.”
“You don’t own an intimidating shirt,” Caleb says.
“It’s all about attitude, Westbrook.”
I huff a laugh. “Well, this has been fun, but I need to go.”
The Hollow is already buzzing when I arrive.
Strings of fairy lights hang crookedly over the outdoor patio. Music thrums from inside, and the neon sign above the door flickers, as if deciding whether to continue functioning.
I tug my coat tighter around my dress and step inside.
The bar smells of beer, frying oil, and nostalgia. Mismatched tables crowd the floor, half the stools are occupied by regulars, and the walls are lined with old photos of town events and framed concert flyers.
Arlo is behind the bar, drying a glass with the kind of resigned focus a man gets when he’s accepted that his entire life is going to be spent in a thirty-foot radius.
His eyes dart up as I weave through the crowd.
“Well, damn,” he says, giving a low whistle. “Sunridge really let you off the leash tonight.”
“Hi, Arlo,” I say, rolling my eyes.
He studies me for a beat. “You want your usual?”
“Do I have a usual?”
“You look like you want something with lemon in it.”
“That tracks,” I admit. “Something with lemon would be great. And maybe a shot of courage.”
“Courage is extra,” he says. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
“Laney!”
The shout nearly knocks me off my barstool.
Sloane barrels into me in a blur of dark curls and glittery eyeshadow, wrapping me in a hug. She smells of vanilla, hairspray, and trouble.
“You came,” she says, leaning back to look at me. “Oh my goodness, look at you.”
I brace myself.
Here it comes.
The Sloane Katz Full Body Review.
She steps back, hands on my shoulders, eyes traveling from my boots up the length of my legs, over the dress, to my face. Her expression shifts from playful to positively gleeful.
“Okay,” she says. “Ranch wife fantasy. I see you.”
“I… no,” I sputter. “This is just… I had one dress…”
“And it’s perfect.” She fans herself. “If anyone at Sunridge doesn’t fall at your feet after tonight, I’m filing a complaint.”
“I’m not trying to make anyone—”
“Too late.” She wiggles her brows. “Damage done.”
I laugh, tension melting.
Ivy appears next, her growing bump leading the way, wearing a black bodycon dress, combat boots, and a smudge of ink on her forearm that says she either came straight from the tattoo shop or got into something with her trio at home.
“Oh hiiii,” she croons, giving me a once-over. “Miss Sunridge is out tonight.”
Olivia slides in on her other side, softer in a floral blouse and jeans, but her eyes are sharp, taking in everything.
“You look amazing,” she says simply. “Boone’s gonna implode.”
“I, no,” I protest. “We’re not…”
“Mmhmm,” Ivy says, patting my arm. “Tell that to the way he looks at you like you’re the first warm day after winter.”
My cheeks ignite. “I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” Sloane corrects. “Now, drink.”
Arlo sets a cocktail in front of me. It’s pale yellow with a sugared rim and a twist of lemon peel.
“Lemon drop,” he says. “With extra courage.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
The Hollow pulses around us. Laughter, music, clinking glasses, the low roar of conversation.
Dottie is holding court at a corner table, scribbling notes in a tiny notebook.
Lani breezes in with a tray of takeout cups from Coyote Cup, dropping one in front of Arlo with a wink.
Bill Granger sits at the bar muttering about “damn kids” while clearly enjoying every second.
The atmosphere only shifts when the door to the bar swings open once more.
“Ooh, that must be them…!” Ivy hisses.
I follow her eye line to see who she’s talking about.
Three men.
The first is tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair making his soft brown eyes stand out, leather jacket worn in all the right places.
His gaze sweeps the room, sharp and assessing, landing briefly on each cluster of people, cataloging exits, threats, opportunities. There’s a tightness coiled in him. A quiet intensity that doesn’t need volume to be felt.
The second is slightly shorter, muscle packed onto his frame like it’s his favorite hobby. He has dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He laughs at something the third one says, head tipped back, easy and loud.
The third one has dark hair, shaved on the sides, and a scar at the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes take everything in.
They are all wearing patches on their jackets and vests. Crescent Hollow MC. The emblem is a stylized crescent moon and a coiled snake.
Beside me, Sloane exhales. “Okay, wow. Who is that, Ivy?”
“They might be buying The Hollow. Mitchell told me. Ryder Callahan, Finn Reilly, and Zane Morgan.”
Olivia lets out a low whistle. “Holy hell. Things are about to get interesting around here.”