Chapter 10
DIEGO
I didn’t know what I expected to find when I stopped by the bar this morning, but teary Gillian wasn’t it.
I hadn’t been prepared for that storm of emotion, but when those first sobs broke through her careful composure, all I could do was hold on tight as she finally let herself have the cry she clearly needed.
Her body shook against mine with each ragged breath, her fingers gripping my shirt like she might float away if she let go.
The force of her tears surprised me—not only their intensity, but how they seemed to come from somewhere deep inside, like a dam finally giving way.
I wrapped my arms more securely around her, one hand moving to cradle the back of her head, my thumb brushing against the silky strands of her hair.
Some protective instinct I’d buried years ago came roaring back to life, stronger than it had any right to be.
“It’s okay,” I murmured against the top of her head, knowing it wasn’t, but needing to say something. The words felt inadequate, but they were all I had to offer in this moment when everything felt like it was falling apart.
I understood this wasn’t something she allowed herself often.
Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen Gillian cry—not real tears like this.
Gillian Holliday didn’t break down. She powered through, chin up, shoulders squared, facing whatever life threw at her with a determined set to her jaw.
That’s who she’d always been, even as a teenager—the girl with the plan, the one who never let anything stop her from achieving whatever goal she’d set her sights on.
Seeing her like this, walls completely down and vulnerable in a way that made my chest ache, hit me somewhere deep I’d thought I’d locked away for good.
She smelled of coffee and a lingering floral scent that was probably her shampoo.
The familiar scent triggered a flood of memories I’d kept locked away—summer nights by the creek, her head on my shoulder, the way she’d laugh at my terrible jokes.
How her hair used to catch the sunlight like burnished copper.
I let my eyes close for a moment, breathing her in and allowing myself this stolen piece of the past. The years between us seemed to collapse, and for a heartbeat, I was twenty-four again, madly in love, and the world was full of endless possibilities.
And even as I felt the twist of worry for Doc gnawing at my gut, even as I hated seeing her hurting like this, a part of me—the selfish, desperate part I tried so hard to ignore—was so damned glad to be holding her again.
To have her seeking comfort from me, of all people.
Her breath hitched against my chest, and I tightened my arms reflexively, as if I could somehow shield her from whatever storm was brewing in her life.
I’d spent four long years telling myself I was over her, that what we’d had was merely a summer thing, the kind of intense first love you’re supposed to outgrow and look back on with fond nostalgia.
I’d convinced myself that the ache in my chest whenever someone mentioned her name would eventually fade, that I’d moved on as she had.
But standing here with her fitted against me like she’d never left, like no time had passed at all, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.
Whatever this was between us—this pull, this connection that defied logic and time—it had never really ended.
Not for me. It had only been waiting, dormant but alive, for her to come home.
Eventually, her tears subsided. I continued holding her, one hand stroking her hair while she quieted against my chest. Her breathing steadied, though she didn’t immediately pull away. I wasn’t about to complain.
“Sorry about that,” she mumbled against my shirt. “Not exactly how I planned to start my day.”
“Don’t apologize.” I leaned back enough to see her face. “You want to talk about it?”
She pulled away slowly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. The fierce, composed Gillian Holliday I remembered was still there beneath the exhaustion, but vulnerability had cracked her armor. Her gaze bounced around the empty bar before coming back to me.
“My dad called.”
I nodded, having caught enough of the conversation to understand the gist. “I’m guessing he has opinions about Doc’s situation.”
“Opinions is putting it mildly.” She picked up her coffee mug, grimacing at what must have been stone-cold liquid.
“He thinks Doc should sell the bar and ‘retire properly.’ As if any of this was ever about retiring. He’s never understood this place.
To him, it’s just Doc’s midlife crisis that got out of hand. A ‘ridiculous endeavor.’”
“Those don’t sound like your words.” I followed her behind the counter as she dumped her coffee and poured a fresh cup.
“Direct quote.” She held up the pot, offering me some. I nodded, and she grabbed another mug. “The great Edgar Holliday can’t comprehend why his father would give up medicine to pour drinks for townies.”
The bitterness in her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. I accepted the mug she handed me, letting my fingers brush against hers. “Your dad always did have a clear vision of what success should look like.”
“For all of us.” She leaned against the counter, cradling her mug in both hands. “He thinks I’m throwing away my career by being here, helping Doc.”
I took a careful sip before responding. I was walking a razor’s edge here. These were the same expectations that had taken her away from me years ago. The same pressures that had made her choose law school over what we might have had.
“What do you think?” I asked instead of offering my opinion.
“I think he’s full of shit.” The bluntness of her response startled a laugh out of me. “Doc isn’t some confused old man. He knew exactly what he was doing when he opened this place.”
“He certainly did.” I smiled. This bar had become the heart of Huckleberry Creek because of Doc. “And he’s good at it.”
“That’s what my dad will never understand. Doc isn’t failing at being a doctor. He’s succeeding at being himself.” She shook her head. “He wanted to make a place where people connect, where stories happen.”
I watched her as she spoke, noticing how her exhaustion seemed to fade when she talked about her grandfather. Her eyes brightened; her gestures became more animated.
“You really understand him,” I said.
She gave me a small smile. “Doc’s always understood me. Even when nobody else did.”
The unspoken comparison to her father hung in the air. I couldn’t help wondering if she included me in that “nobody else” category.
“It’s funny,” she continued, “even when I went to law school, Doc never pushed me one way or the other. He just asked if it was what I wanted.” Her voice softened. “He was the only one who did.”
I studied her face, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, and the way she kept glancing at her phone. She understood her grandfather, sure. But I wondered if she understood herself—what she really wanted, beneath all the expectations and ambitions.
“Does he know you’re killing yourself trying to keep this place running while working remotely?”
She winced. “He’d have my head for pulling an all-nighter.”
“Seems like the Holliday stubbornness runs in the family.”
That earned me a genuine laugh. “Takes one to know one, Rivera.”
For a moment, we were us again—the easy banter, the shared understanding. Then her phone buzzed, and the moment shattered as her eyes darted toward it.
“Your dad again?”
“No. Work.” Her shoulders tensed. “It never stops.”
I set down my mug, studying her. “Neither do you, apparently.”
I watched her waver on her feet, exhaustion written in every line of her body. The urge to help, to fix things, rushed through me like a current, and I stepped in, loosely stabilizing her with my arms. “What can I do to help?”
Instead of pulling away, Gillian shook her head against my chest. “I don’t know.” Her voice was small, muffled by my shirt. “I just... I don’t know anymore.”
I leaned back slightly to see her face. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her skin had the waxy pallor of someone running on empty. She was wearing the same clothes from last night, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Even with all that, she was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
“I can pitch in behind the bar,” I offered. “Be another set of hands for Saturday night. Then you can get some rest tomorrow.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “You’d do that?”
“Of course I would.” The words came easily because they were true. I’d do almost anything for her, and always had been. “I’m off shift until Monday. I’ve got plenty of time.”
She hesitated, and I could see the reflexive refusal forming on her lips.
Gillian had always been stubbornly self-sufficient, determined to handle everything on her own.
It was one of the things I’d admired about her.
And one of the things that had ultimately driven us apart.
She’d never been able to see that sometimes accepting help wasn’t weakness.
“You’re dead on your feet,” I added gently. “And Doc would kill me if I let you run yourself into the ground.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Doc would kill me too.”
“It’s settled.” I dropped my hands from her shoulders, missing the contact immediately. “I’ll be here tonight. I’ve worked enough pickup shifts in this place to handle myself.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could see the internal struggle happening behind her eyes—pride versus practicality, independence versus need.
“It’s only for tonight,” I said. “One shift. I’m not trying to take over.”
That seemed to ease something in her. “I’d really appreciate the help,” she finally admitted, her shoulders sagging with relief. “Saturday nights are always slammed.”
“I know.” I remembered those nights well—the crush of people three-deep at the bar, the constant flow of drinks, the noise that made it nearly impossible to hear orders.
Doc had always thrived in that chaos, moving with surprising speed and efficiency for a man of his years. Gillian had the same gift.
I couldn’t quite stop myself from reaching out to brush a strand of hair back from her face, my thumb gently wiping away the last trace of tears on her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft under my touch, and for a moment, we were frozen in that point of contact, neither of us pulling away.
“I’ll see you tonight.” My voice came out rougher than I’d intended.
Our eyes locked, and I saw something flicker in hers—recognition, remembrance, possibly even longing. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
She nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you, Diego.”
I stepped back, breaking the spell before I could do something stupid like kiss her. “Get some rest, Gillian. I’ve got this.”
As I turned to leave, I felt the weight of her gaze on my back. I paused at the door, looking back over my shoulder. She stood there in the early morning light, surrounded by stacked chairs and empty tables, looking both lost and found at the same time.
“Diego?” she called.
“Yeah?”
“Why are you doing this?”
I could have given her any number of answers. Because I care about Doc. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because we’re friends. All of them would have been true, but none of them would have been the whole truth.
Instead, I smiled. “I’ll see you at six.”
As I walked out into the brightening day, I knew I was in trouble.
Four years of careful distance, of pretending I was over her, and all it took was one moment of vulnerability to bring it all rushing back.
Tonight was going to be torture—working side by side, falling into old rhythms, pretending my heart didn’t still belong to her.
But if it gave her a chance to breathe, to rest, it would be worth it. She was worth it. She always had been.