Chapter 1
Harper
Fuck work, fuck this fucking job, and fuck Milo for thinking I can’t do this on my own. In fact—fuck all men.
Except Frankie, the bartender, actively helping me get drunk. He’s cool.
I shoot the whiskey Frankie had just filled and slam the glass down on the slightly sticky bar with a little more force than needed. Frankie quirks a brow.
I don’t really mean fuck Milo either. He’s my best friend and my business partner, and honestly, if he wasn’t already married—to a man—I’d probably make him my husband too.
Not that I want to get married. Ever. But Milo would be convenient.
We’ve been friends for six years, and he already knows everything about me, including how to put up with all my shit.
Which is exactly why he should have known better than to hire me an assistant. He means well. He always does. But fuck him for thinking I need a goddamn assistant. He doesn’t have one.
Because I have work/life boundaries, Harper, he’d said as he texted the name and resume of the imbecile he hired to, what…get me coffee and make photocopies or some bullshit? It’s 2026. We don’t even need photocopies. What is this kid going to do besides follow me around all day and get in my way?
I throw back the rest of the whiskey and lift my hand to Frankie for a refill. My vision is already swimming a little, but I squint at Milo’s text from earlier.
Sullivan M. Bennett.
I don’t bother opening the attachment Milo sent. I don’t need to. Who names their kid Sullivan, anyway?
My head is throbbing a little, but I’m not quite ready to sulk back to my apartment yet.
It’s only eleven p.m. That would be the earliest I’ve been home in months, all because Milo said that if I didn’t leave the office, he’d have Parker—his husband, built like a linebacker—come down and physically carry me home.
So I left.
Not because he told me to.
But because I wanted to stop at Bar None.
“Whiskey, neat,” a voice says beside me.
I hadn’t noticed anyone take the barstool next to mine. Certainly not anyone with a voice like caramel, or with flecks of stubble shadowing an angular jaw.
He catches me staring and lifts his glass, tipping his chin in a silent toast before taking a sip.
I don’t raise my glass, but I drink anyway, eyes forward.
“Celebrating?” he asks, “or commiserating?”
The question is casual. The voice is not.
It slides low in my belly and settles there, unexpected—and entirely distracting. I look away, so the stranger can’t see the flush to my cheeks.
“Sorry,” he says, pushing up from the bar. “I didn’t mean that to be weird. I’ll leave you to it.”
He picks up his glass and wipes at a ring of condensation on the bar with his cocktail napkin before turning away without a backward glance.
“Maybe both,” I say. And before my brain fully catches up with my mouth, I add, “You don’t have to go.”
He turns back with a sheepish smile that is somehow disarming, even as he avoids my eyes. His hair is messy in a way that looks unintentional, and even in the dim light of the bar, I catch a few threads of silver at his temples. Not silver fox—more like glitter woven into otherwise dark hair.
He sets his whiskey glass back on the bar, but doesn’t let go of it and doesn’t sit back down. When he finally looks at me, his eyes are warm, a deep shade of amber. But there’s a hint of something, concern maybe, like he’s bracing for something he didn’t plan on.
“What about you?” I ask. “Celebrating or commiserating?” I gesture to the barstool beside me.
I don’t hit on men in bars. Hell, I don’t even talk to men in bars. I’ve learned that one polite hello can turn into a man bun explaining the current weather to me or telling me I should smile more.
But something about this guy makes me want to—I don’t know.
Talk.
“Maybe both,” he echoes, his tentative smile tilting just a little.
And that voice sends electric sparks straight down my spine.
I’m suddenly thinking about more than conversation.
“So what are you celebrating or commiserating?” he asks, dragging my attention from the way his forearm flexes around his whiskey glass.
“Oh.” I hesitate. I’m celebrating that Milo and I just secured our largest client project to date, and I’m commiserating that he doesn’t think I can handle it alone.
But I don’t want to talk about work right now.
I talk about or think about work twenty-three and a half hours a day.
It’s usually the only thing that holds my attention.
Except right now.
“Just work,” I say.
I meet his eyes. “What about you?”
“I agreed to do a favor for an old friend,” he says, sliding tentatively onto the stool.
“That’s nice of you.” My body angling towards his like a magnet. “I’m sure your friend appreciates it.”
“He does,” the man nods, then finishes his drink in a faster-than-needed gulp, “I’m just a little unsure if I’m up for it, you know.”
And something about his words feels a little broken, lived in, maybe. I take the last sip of my drink and wave to Frankie.
“You can put them both on my tab, Frankie,” I say as the bartender refills our glasses. “We’re celebrating.”
“Congratulations,” Frankie says, finishing his pour with the disinterest of a bartender who has seen too much.
“To drowning our sorrows and better tomorrows,” I toast with my dad’s favorite saying, and he clinks my glass with a slight chuckle. We both take long sips of our whiskey, and the alcohol, or maybe his gentle smile, loosens a knot inside my chest that I had figured was just how my body operates.
We fall into easy conversation after that.
Not like the first date bullshit. But like we are on our twelfth date or twelve hundredth, like we already know all the little details, and now it’s just stories and half-finished thoughts.
Connection and laughter that sneaks up on me, the strange relief of not being Harper-who-has-it-all-handled for once.
Time slides by, marked only by empty glasses and the way I keep leaning a little closer without meaning to.
“Hey,” he says eventually, a shy smile crossing his lips. “I really have to use the restroom.” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, then hesitates. “Will you still be here, or do you need to head out?”
“No,” I laugh. “It’s way too early for me to go home. The neighbors wouldn’t know what to think if I showed up before midnight.”
“Ah.” He nods, and I have the sudden, irrational urge to swim in the warm gold of his eyes when he smiles. “I used to be a night owl, too,” he continues. “But this is the latest I’ve stayed up in months.”
“Maybe I should let you get to bed.” And I’m pretty sure I’m smirking.
He goes quiet for a beat, studying me—or maybe choosing his next words. Maybe he’s about to say he should get going too, and I find myself holding my breath in a way that makes no sense at all.
I don’t want him to go.
“This has been well worth ruining my sleep score on my RootDown app.”
Heat rushes up my neck. I could blame the whiskey or the too-warm sweater, but I know better. It’s the way he’s looking at me now—appreciation edged with something darker, something that trips down my spine like a slinky.
“My business partner is obsessed with that app too,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “Go.” I tip my chin toward the back hallway. “I’ll order us another round.”
He hesitates, then smiles once more before heading off.
I flag Frankie down, order another whiskey I absolutely don’t need, and tell myself I should stay seated right here on my barstool.
That I should let this be a pleasant conversation and nothing more.
That I don’t do this…at least not on a weeknight.
But my feet are already heading towards the bathroom hall.
When he steps out of the bathroom, he startles slightly at the sight of me leaning against the opposite wall.
He recovers quickly, holding the door open for me behind him. My heart is hammering hard enough that I’m sure he can see it. Hear it echoing down the narrow hallway.
For half a second, I think about walking past him. Splashing cold water on my face. Resetting. But while my head is usually crowded with deadlines and menu tests and overhead projections, all I can think about right now is him.
I hook my finger into his belt loop and tug.
He looks down, confused for exactly one beat, then lets me guide him backward into the small bathroom. I reach behind him to twist the lock, and the sound of it clicking into place is loud in the quiet space. I’m close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to hear when his breath hitches.
“I’ve never really…” he pauses, swallows. “I don’t usually—”
I quiet him with my mouth.
His lips are warm, and taste like whiskey—his or mine, I can’t tell—and his hand slides instinctively around my waist. I deepen the kiss, and he responds immediately, stepping closer, backing me up until the counter digs into my hip.
“You taste incredible,” he muses, stooping to nibble kisses down my neck and across the corner of my exposed collarbone.
And although I’m not that much shorter than he is, I rise on my toes to give him better access.
As if reading my thoughts, he hoists me effortlessly onto the counter and steps between my legs, which spread wide around his waist, causing my skirt to hike up, exposing my bare thighs. He lets out an appreciative sigh.
I twist my hands in his shirt collar and drag him closer.
His chest solid beneath my fingertips, his pulse pounding hard and fast, matching the frantic rhythm in my own.
We kiss until my lips feel bruised, but I know it’s not enough.
I reach for the button of his jeans, and he pulls back, just a millimeter from my lips.
“I live close by, do you want to—” he starts, then trails off, mouth finding mine again. His hands slide up my thighs, thumbs pressing into the inside of my legs, close enough to send sparks across my skin, but still not nearly close enough.
I live nearby as well. Just a few blocks. But I’m already too close to combustion to want to leave. Besides, if we stop now, I might come to my senses. I might start thinking.
And right now, I don’t want to reactivate the part of my brain that runs ten steps ahead, calculating outcomes and spotting missteps before they happen.
I want to use the small, neglected part that just wants to feel good.
To focus on the way one of his hands still grips my thigh, almost possessively, while the other slips beneath my sweater for the first time.
“I don’t want to leave,” I breathe when his thumb grazes my nipple. “I want this. Now.”
“God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs against my neck as his hand slides the last inch up my thigh. His grip is firm, kneading my flesh close enough to make me ache. “I want to touch you more.”
“Do it,” I moan, rocking my hips forward to meet his hand.
His thumb drags upward, and he lets out a breathless curse when he realizes how wet I already am for him.
“Yes,” I gasp, pulling his mouth back to mine as his thumb slips beneath the elastic of my underwear.
He strokes slowly at first, then with purpose, until he finds a rhythm that makes my whole body tense.
I writhe against the counter as he circles my clit with steady, deliberate pressure, and it’s been so long since someone touched me like this—like they know exactly what they’re doing—that I can feel myself tightening almost immediately.
“That’s right, baby,” he murmurs.
And just when I’m about to beg for more, he slides two fingers inside me.
The sensation is shocking and exactly what I want all at once, and I shatter.
My breath catches as the orgasm crashes through me, fast and overwhelming, my body convulsing as it takes over completely.
He doesn’t pull away. He keeps the same rhythm I didn’t even know I needed, guiding me through it with soft praises—that’s right, I’ve got you—until I’m trembling and boneless against him.
I can’t speak. I can barely move. But I need my mouth on his again.
“I’m Max,” he stammers between my desperate kisses. “I never—we never—”
Harper, I think I say as I fumble for his zipper, desperate to touch him now.
“Fuck,” he groans when I slide my hand into his jeans. He’s already hard. I squeeze him once, imagining the rest of him, and I’ve never wanted to confirm an assumption more in my life.
“Do you have a condom?” I moan, scooting to the edge of the counter.
“Oh—yeah. I think—” he grits out, my hand moving rougher now. “But do you—are you sure—”
A distant, familiar buzz makes my hand falter. He stills instantly.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling my hand free of his jeans, and my reality slams me back into consciousness.
“It’s okay,” he rushes. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to do anything—”
“No,” I groan, hopping down from the counter and reaching for my bag. “You were great.” The words come out distracted, my head still spinning from whiskey and the aftershocks of the orgasm as I dig my phone out of the depths of my tote. “Shit,” I say again when I see the screen.
I look up to find him watching me, breathing hard, his fly still undone. There’s something almost helpless in his expression, a mix of uncertainty and that wounded, hopeful look of a puppy waiting to be chosen.
For a dizzying second, I consider staying.
“Look…” I start.
Or I could take this call, talk Kincade off whatever ledge he’s currently dangling from, and then we could walk back to my place. Finish what we started in a more civilized way. Maybe even grab coffee in the morning.
What am I doing?
I’m in the middle of an anonymous make-out session in a dive bar bathroom, not starring in some Hallmark meet-cute.
My phone buzzes again. I have to take this call, even though it’s well past midnight. I need to stay focused on what matters.
I need to leave. Alone.
“Look,” I say, forcing a detached smile. “This was great. Really. Thank you.” I lean up and press one last kiss to his mouth. “But I have to go.”
I slip out of the bathroom and pull the door closed behind me, smoothing my skirt as I head for the exit.
“Close me out, Frankie!” I call over my shoulder.
“Okay, Harper,” he answers with a wave. “See you next time.”
I reach the front door and pause. Some reckless part of me hopes the handsome stranger will follow me.
He doesn’t.
It’s better that way, I tell myself as I step out into the cool midnight air.