Chapter 20 #2
“I said this your first time here? You look lost.
“Had that ‘where the fuck am I’ face for a sec.”
Then I notice I’ve been standing at the door this whole time, rooted... pathetic.
As if I’m waiting for someone to open it for me or escort me farther inside.
He gestures toward the bar.
“Figured I’d come rescue you from the deer-in-headlights moment. I’m stuck workin’ barback tonight—slammed, runnin’ that side right there.”
I follow the hand.
To Andrew watching—
brow cocked, eyes loaded,
two seconds from laughing.
Or lunging.
“Unless you meetin’ up with somebody.” His shoulder dips closer.
“If not, I got room right there next to me. Front row seat. I’ll grab you a stool.
” He smirks. “You sit close, give me a pretty view to look at, talk a little shit, throw me off my game while I make sure your drink stays filled—I won’t mind. ”
A pretty view to look at.
Like I’m scenery. A fuckin’ flower vase with tits.
I spot an empty bartop table in the corner by the window.
“Nah, I'm good."
His smirk tips off balance, dies,
then gets resurrected as a cough of a laugh.
“Cool. Yeah. No worries.”
He nods with a quick glance back at the bar,
wiping his hands down his pants.
“All good—just shootin’ my shot.
“No foul, right?”
I move around him,
eyes on the seat like it’s the edge of the pool.
I sit before my legs give out.
I don’t do this. I don’t do waiting.
Not for coffee to cool.
Not for a green light.
Not for boys.
So why the fuck am I doing it now?
I breathe in deep, but it doesn’t help.
My pulse is a mess.
I’m sweating and freezing at the same time.
Not a full minute passes when—
a leather jacket with a highball glass starts his lap toward me.
He gets two feet out,
lifts his drink, opens his mouth—
I cut him off with lethal eyes and a head shake, and he pivots like he just remembered something important.
The bar sign outside bleeds green through the window as I sit here,
like a fucking Andrew groupie.
But then I sense his gaze.
I don’t look
until his stare lands a second time,
and sinks deeper.
All heat. All pull. All him.
I glance up.
Andrew’s eyes lock on mine over the rim of the glass he’s sliding across the bar, right into the hands of some woman giggling at whatever bullshit he just fed her.
He entertains her,
but his gaze keeps falling back to me.
I can see it in his face.
He’s surprised I showed up.
Now he doesn’t have enough time to prepare.
Now he’s scrambling for what the fuck to say to get out of this mess.
I tap against my knee as I watch him.
He’s working the bar—
foreplay poured into glasses,
slipped into grins, tucked inside small talk.
Every girl’s the center of his world
for ten seconds at a time.
Soft in the eyes.
Charming in the mouth.
Irresistible in the smile.
But his gaze keeps coming back to me,
keeping tabs, seeing if I left yet.
Bar clock ticks past 11:47.
I sit up straighter,
elbow on the table,
chin in palm.
My phone’s right there, in my purse, begging to be touched, but I can’t afford to lose focus or lower my guard.
Not when some guy in baby blue is hovering nearby, a martini sweating in one hand, intentions sweating out the other.
He doesn’t make a beeline.
He rocks on his feet, draws closer,
a few feet out, hand stuffed in his pocket.
He tips forward.
Retreats.
Tips again.
Arguing with himself—
Then he goes for it.
“Hey, sorry—don’t mean to bug you,” he says, voice cracking halfway through. “Just… you seemed kinda lonely too. Thought maybe…”
He trails off, waiting for mercy.
Lonely too.
It hits me in the chest.
He’s alone. He sees me alone.
I have a lie saved for these occasions.
For when my heart thaws for a beat.
I look him straight in the heartbreak.
“I’m pregnant.”
My eyes slide to Andrew.
He’s tossing back a swig of water behind the bar, watching.
He lowers the bottled water, swallows hard,
wipes his mouth with the back of his hand,
twists the cap too tight, probably thinking—
Look at her, already workin’ the room,
actin’ like she ain’t tied to nobody.
My gaze finds Mr. Martini again.
“Yeah pregnant in a bar.
“‘Cause I’m a fuckin’ disaster.”
I make me look bad, toxic, dangerous.
A reason to make him think he dodged me.
A line that doesn’t ruin his confidence for the rest of the night.
His mouth lifts in a sad, small smile.
“Oh. Wow. I—uh…”
He glances down at my stomach.
I push out as far as it will go,
but then he’s glancing at my face again,
guilt in his eyes for checking.
“Sorry. That’s… congratulations?”
I offer a smile as he walks away, but it falls the moment he turns his back to me.
The longer I sit here,
the longer I notice the eyes.
All of them, climbing over my skin.
Don’t look at anyone directly.
Don’t hold anyone’s stare for longer than a blink.
Stay calm, alert, count exits, count faces.
Eyes flick over me.
Then on to the next girl.
Then the next.
Too easy, too hot, too ugly, too bitchy—
I imagine them thinking,
their eyes cataloguing,
shopping,
discarding,
peeling clothes off one at a time.
I breathe in,
then all the way out, trying to stay unshaken.
My nerves don’t listen.
They climb anyway.
Stupid bitch.
I coulda stayed home, coulda stayed safe.
The clock above the bar says nine minutes to midnight.
Andrew’s still watching me.
Or trying not to.
His eyes keep snagging mine,
and my knee’s jittering under the table.
I press my palm down on it to cage it.
“Hey, you waitin’ for someone?”
I hear the voice before the body slides in front of me.
This one stands right at my table with a cocky smirk. A cross tattoo is stamped on his neck.
Tall. White tee. Jean jacket. Mid-twenties.
“If not, you could join us.”
He hooks a thumb behind him,
where there're two more guys at the bar,
both watching me.
“I’m Lucas,” he adds.
“I’m married,” I say.
Taken means nothing.
Boyfriend means competition.
But the second you say married?
Most of the time, they’ll back off.
Not because they respect you,
but because they respect him.
It’s not about boundaries,
it’s about ownership.
“Yeah?” he nudges his chin at my hand,
as if he’s heard this line before.
“Where’s your ring?”
He’s looming over me now,
making my hand tremble.
I slip it off the table
and hide it under my thigh.
“Same place as your invitation to stand next to me.”
Liam laughs, taking it as flirting.
Or was it Larry?
“Damn, aight. You got jokes, huh?” he says, angling in and resting his forearm on my table, propping himself to pull me into conversation. “You’re one of those—mouth on you, but you like the attention.”
And the second this kid leans closer to me,
Andrew’s whole body locks halfway through a transaction—
credit card in hand, mid-swipe, mid-smirk,
mid who-the-fuck-is-this-guy.
Whatever I was going to say is gone.
Andrew’s fingers are hovering the register,
eyes cutting across the bar,
through the noise,
piercing the back of this guy’s head.
“I—uh…”
That’s all I get out because—
nope. I’m fucking done.
I’m not sitting here one more second
being stared at like I'm just holes
and hair
and lips
and skin
to be visually and imaginationally consumed.
And Andrew doesn’t want me here.
Not really.
I grab my purse,
glancing at Andrew one last time.
He’s staring.
Then—
The drawer slams shut.
The credit card slaps the bar.
He mutters off to his coworker
as he heads this way,
drying his hands on a towel,
tossing the towel into the sink,
his eyes never leaving mine as he cuts around the bar,
then around bodies,
through conversations,
through someone's laughter,
none of it touching him.
My heart’s pounding so loud
I’m convinced he’ll hear it.
The room shrinks as he closes the space between us.
His eyes drag over me slow—
top to bottom, back up—
seeing all of me,
taking me in after five days of nothing.
My chest rises as he approaches.
Then he’s standing between me and the guy,
boxing him out.
Right here.
Close.
His breath’s not steady.
It's not wild, but not calm either.
The tension is rolling off him.
His hand grips the back of my chair,
jaw clenched as the navy in his eyes flick across my features.
Every inch of me wants to bolt.
Except the part leaning into him.
My shoulder brushes the heat of his chest.
Then he turns to Louis. Liam.
Whatever-the-fuck.
“Yo, bro—she’s off-limits,” Andrew says, smiling, pushing his sleeve up, seeming unbothered as he lifts his chin. “We good?”
The guy sizes Andrew up—
six-foot-nothing of nerve, lean limbs,
and a quick Jersey mouth.
He’s shocked Andrew has the audacity.
I’m doing the same,
just sitting here,
staring at Andrew.
Then Andrew spins his hand fast in a wrap-it-up gesture. “Let’s speed this up—answer’s no, my guy. Ya gotta go.”
The guy blinks. “I—”
Silence suspends.
Then a smirk breaks out across the guy’s face.
“Didn’t realize she was the bartender’s girl.
“My bad, dude,” he says, taking a step back, glancing at me now, raising a palm. “Coulda just said you were taken.”
I squint, stunned.
“Told you I was married. Apparently, it only counts once he shows up. Before that? Fair game, huh?” I scoff. “Wild.”
Andrew’s eyes cut to me,
then burn into me.
His hand leaves the chair
and is warm when it lands against my back.
Every muscle in me freezes,
my body flinching first,
thinking touch means take before it knows the hand it belongs to.
But Andrew waits until the flinch passes,
then his thumb smooths steady circles down my spine, heat spilling out from his palm, and my body exhales, my whole chest caving to reach for him.
When he turns back to the guy,
he gives him a quick once-over.
“The fuck you still standin’ here for?”
The guy’s confidence deflates.
“You act like I touched her, bro. Chill.”
Andrew lets out a breathy laugh.
“Nah. You acted like you could.
“Big fuckin’ difference.”
The guy glares at him.
Andrew's posture straightens—
Until the guy melts back into the crowd.
Andrew exhales,