Chapter 18
It’s Friday.
The walk to the bar feels longer than it should. My body knows the way, but my mind is somewhere else, hovering between anticipation and anxiety. I can’t tell if the pressure in my chest is excitement or something heavier like the beginning of change.
Because it’s not just Hex I’m walking toward. It’s whatever this thing is between us. Still unfolding, too fast to overanalyze but too real to ignore.
The morning passed in a blur at the shop, my hands deep in the layers of an old bookcase with glass doors and carved moldings that deserved more than a rushed job. Paint stuck to my forearms, a few faded streaks still visible no matter how much I scrubbed.
I didn’t dress for a date. I dressed for work. Paint-splattered pants. A basic tank under a zip-up hoodie.
Maybe that’s the version of me I trust the most—the one covered in dust, focused on something real, with nothing to prove and no interest in standing out.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.
That faint prickle at the back of my neck.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I glance over my shoulder. Nothing. The street is quiet at this hour, only the occasional car passing by or the soft hum of conversation drifting from an open shop door.
Maybe it’s paranoia.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Still, I pick up my pace.
By the time I reach the bar, my fingers hesitate on the door handle. Should I have gone around back? Before I can decide, the lock clicks, and the door swings open.
Hex stands there, filling the doorway like he’d been waiting for me.
“Hey, Legs.” His voice holds that familiar warmth, laced with teasing, but his eyes cut through the moment, darting past me. He’s looking for something. Someone.
Something about that soothes me more than I expect.
He steps back, guiding me inside.
“Delivery’s already handled,” he says, nodding toward the empty bar. “No one else will be in for a while.”
The scent of food hits me first. Smoky, rich, and warm.
My stomach growls. I glance at the bar lined with the containers of brisket sandwiches, pulled pork sliders, baked beans, and potato salad.
The protein bar I had this morning, as I rushed Bash into the car so we didn’t miss drop off, had long been digested.
I arch a brow at him. “What, no dessert?”
Unfazed, Hex grabs a container and opens it. Steaming fluffy, golden pancakes are stacked inside. Of course.
“Since you said you liked whipped cream…” He reaches behind the bar and pulls out a can, shaking it.
I let out a small laugh, in disbelief of this insanely thoughtful man.
He didn’t ask what I wanted for lunch. Didn’t make me pick a place, send options, or expect me to decide.
He just… handled it. And after years of making every single decision and keeping track of every single thing: what we were having for dinner, which brand of paper towels we used, even the last time the damn washing machine drain needed cleaning—it’s nice not to think so much. -
Hex places the whipped cream on the counter and shifts his weight against the bar, steady gaze locked on me, carrying the quiet certainty of a man who never doubts his next move.
I shake my head, reaching for a plate. He’s a handler, all right. Just not the kind I thought he might be after our drunken website chat.
I scoop a portion of baked beans onto my plate, then potato salad, stealing a glance at him. He keeps his eyes on me, that coy twitch of his lips playing on his mouth, as if certain he’s living rent-free in my thoughts.
“Something funny, Hector?”
“Not at all.”
I shake my head again, reaching for a pulled pork slider. “I’ve got limited time,” I remind him, even as I unzip my hoodie, removing it and taking my seat on the stool nearest me.
Hex makes a plate and sits next to me. “You’re the owner. Make your own rules.”
I huff out a small laugh. “Irresponsible.”
“Yeah?” He leans in slightly, voice dropping. “And you’re nothing but responsible, huh?”
“I mean…” I gesture vaguely, picking up my fork. “The fact that I’ve seen the inside of a bar twice in a week is already two more times than I have in the past decade. I’m a little out of character at the moment.”
Hex studies me, arms folding over his chest. “Not a big drinker?”
I shake my head, scooping up a bite of potato salad. “Don’t like feeling out of control. I like my faculties intact. And at my age, the hangover isn’t worth it.”
He smirks, the kind of reaction that says he’s reading between the lines. “You just aren’t doing it right.”
An amusing thought, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes my stomach feel tight behind my belly button. He’s still, letting the silence stretch, knowing full well I haven’t told him everything.
I exhale and set my fork down. “No. It’s just…”
Hex picks up his brisket sandwich, taking a slow bite, waiting me out. He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t let me off the hook either.
“I drank plenty in college. My early twenties too. Had my fun. But then…” My fingers toy with the napkin beside my plate. “Then I became a mom, and it just… didn’t feel right anymore.”
Hex chews, his focus unwavering.
“I didn’t want to be the parent who couldn’t wake up in the middle of the night if Bash needed me.
Or who wasn’t completely present if something went wrong.
” My jaw tightens slightly. “And my ex… he didn’t like it.
Made it clear early on that he didn’t want me drinking.
At first, it started with little comments.
Then, after a while, it just became something I didn’t do. ”
Hex doesn’t react right away, but I see something shift in his expression. He leisurely chews, each bite buying time while he sorts through whatever it is he’s about to say.
“I respect that,” he finally says, voice low and certain. “Wanting to be present for your kid. Making sure he always has someone steady to rely on.”
A lump forms in my throat. I reach for my water to try and clear it, but Hex notices.
His smirk returns.
“But there’s a way to enjoy yourself without all the guilt,” he says. “A way to let go a little without losing control.”
I arch a brow. “Oh yeah?”
He leans in, voice dipping lower. “Yeah.” He taps his fingers against the bar. “It helps if you’ve got the right partner. Someone you trust, who’s got your back even if you were truly gone. Someone who’d take care of you, make sure nothing bad happened. No judgment. Just care.”
There he goes again with the partner comments.
Something warm spreads through me.
Hex stands, moving behind the bar, and pulls down a dark, unlabeled bottle.
“Bourbon isn’t about drinking to get drunk,” he says, pouring two fingers into each glass. “It’s about appreciation. Being in it. Savoring it.”
“Are we talking about partners still or alcohol?” I ask with a coy smile.
His lips twitch. “Both.”
He slides one of the glasses toward me, the amber liquid catching the light. Then he moves back around and takes the stool beside me once more.
A shiver stirs in me and works its way down my spine. The goose bumps raise on my bare arms.
Hex swirls his glass, watching the liquid spiral. “Drinking like this… it’s about patience. You don’t rush it. You don’t just take what you can get and move on. You let it breathe, take your time with it. Feel every part of it.”
I arch a brow. “And what happens if you just throw it back?”
“You miss everything that makes it worth drinking in the first place.” And with a careful tilt, the rim meets his lips, his eyes never leaving mine.
I wrap my fingers around my glass, pulse kicking up between my ears. I lift the bourbon, breathing in caramel and vanilla, followed by something darker. Richer.
Hex watches me with that same patient intensity in his eyes he had at the gun range. There’s no hint of nerves. No smile. Just stillness. Quiet observation. Like nothing I do could rattle him.
Meanwhile, I’m barely holding it together.
I take a drawn-out sip. The warmth rolls over my tongue, settling deep in my chest like liquid fire. I can’t take my eyes off this man.
“So what’s next?” I ask, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
With a knowing quirk of his lips, he continues, “Second lesson: you pair it right.” He gestures at the food spread between us. “A good bourbon with the right meal? It changes everything.”
I pick up a bite of pork, chewing thoughtfully. He’s right. The smoky sweetness blends with the lingering warmth of the bourbon, deepening it.
Hex watches me, his gaze flicking to my mouth, and I swear his brown eyes darken.
“You get it now?” he asks with a smooth candor.
I swallow, chasing it with another small sip, and nod.
“I think I do. But…” I look at him through my lashes. “Tell me again about feeling every part of it.”
Before I can set my glass flush to the counter his hand brushes mine, catching my wrist gently, and setting the glass down for me. He keeps hold of me as he turns on the stool to face me. His knees bump against mine beneath the bar.
Leaning in, there’s heat in his eyes, but control in every movement. Like he’s not rushing this. Like he’s about to savor it.
His other hand slides to my waist, fingers skimming just under the edge of my shirt. He doesn’t pull me forward. He coaxes, guiding me off the stool with the barest pressure of his fingertips, like I might spook if he asks for too much.
I go willingly.
The heels of my boots hit the floor. Hex stays seated, knees bracketing my hips as I step between them. His chest lifts in a long, measured breath, as if steadying something dangerous inside him. Then his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is unhurried at first, all testing and teasing. The kind of lip-to-lip connection that makes you ache because it’s not trying to steal breath, it’s offering you a choice: lean in, or walk away.
My hands slide up his chest, exploring the planes, tracing the curves of muscle beneath his shirt, then higher into his hair. I curl my fingers in the dark strands and tug, just enough to pull a groan from deep in his throat.