Chapter 11
GILLIAN
I squeezed past Diego to grab the whiskey bottle, our shoulders brushing in the tight space behind the bar.
The Saturday night crowd roared around us, three deep at the counter and filling every table.
Someone had put Waylon Jennings on the jukebox, and half the patrons were singing along.
In the corner, the band was setting up for the first of their sets.
“Two whiskey sours and a gin and tonic,” I called over my shoulder.
“Got it.” Diego reached for the gin without looking, his movements perfectly synchronized with mine.
We’d fallen into a rhythm so natural it was almost unsettling. Two hours into his shift, and we moved like we’d been working together for years rather than one night. I’d forgotten how good we were at this—at everything, really.
“Mrs. Woodley texted,” I said as we passed each other again, this time with me ducking under his arm as he reached for a glass. “She’s got Doc settled with dinner and a movie. Says she’ll make sure he doesn’t sneak out.”
Diego grinned, the smile transforming his face in a way that still made my stomach flip. “Your grandfather’s met his match with that one.”
“You think?” I glanced over at him while mixing a margarita. “I was just thinking the same thing. There might be something there.”
“Oh, there’s definitely something.” Diego slid three beers across the counter to a waiting customer. “She brings him lunch at least once a week. Has for months now.”
“Really?” I paused mid-pour. “He never mentioned that.”
“Would he?” Diego raised an eyebrow. “Doc’s been flying solo since your grandmother passed. Maybe he’s not sure how to tell you he’s interested in someone new.”
I considered that while filling a row of shot glasses. “I’d love it if he found someone, you know? Fifteen years is a long time to be alone.”
“Some people need that long,” Diego said, his voice softer. “Others figure out what they want a lot sooner.”
Our eyes met briefly before we both looked away, the weight of unspoken history hanging between us.
“Shots for the birthday girl!” I announced, pushing thoughts of the past aside as I delivered the tray to a raucous table in the corner.
When I returned, Diego was flipping bottles with unexpected flair, drawing cheers from the crowd at the bar.
“When did you learn to do that?” I laughed, genuinely impressed.
“Firefighter talent show. Don’t ask.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
For the next hour, we moved around each other in a rhythm as familiar as breathing.
Reaching past one another for bottles, sliding drinks down the bar, calling orders back and forth.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much fun—certainly not in any boardroom or during late-night contract reviews.
At some point, I realized I hadn’t checked my phone in hours. My laptop sat closed in the office, work emails unopened. And I didn’t care.
“You’re smiling,” Diego observed during a rare quiet moment as we restocked glasses.
“Am I?”
“Haven’t stopped all night.” He paused, his eyes meeting mine. “It looks good on you.”
Heat crept up my neck. “This is fun,” I admitted. “I forgot how much I love this place.”
“The bar?” he asked, but something in his expression told me he was asking about more than Doc’s Saloon.
Before I could answer, someone shouted for another round, and we were back in motion.
“How about those Bears, huh? You think they’ve got a shot at state this year?” Old Mr. Pelletier leaned against the bar, his weathered face creased in a smile.
I slid his beer across the polished wood, grateful that Doc took the time to keep me updated on local events, even while I was in Chicago. “With Coach Miller’s new offense? Absolutely.”
Mr. Pelletier gestured to his buddy. “That’s what I told Henry, but he ain’t convinced.”
“Gillian Holliday! Look at you, mixologist extraordinaire!” The familiar voice pulled my attention to the entrance.
I looked up to see Lucy and Cord making their way through the crowded room. Lucy’s face lit up with delight as she hurried over. I ducked under the pass thru to accept a fierce hug from her.
“Hey, stranger. I haven’t seen you since you dropped off that lasagna.”
“I know I’m the worst friend. Between work and Liam starting baseball and—” She glanced back at Cord, who winked at her. “—other distractions, I’ve been terrible about checking in.”
“How’s Doc doing?” Cord’s arms slid around Lucy’s waist with an enviable intimacy.
“Better. Fighting the doctor’s orders every step of the way.” I mixed Lucy’s usual cranberry vodka without having to ask. “But Mrs. Woodley’s got him under surveillance tonight.”
Lucy wiggled her eyebrows. “Ooh, Mrs. Woodley, huh? That’s still happening?”
“Apparently, it’s been happening for months.” I glanced at Diego, who was serving customers at the other end of the bar. “Someone’s been holding out on me.”
“Speaking of holding out...” Lucy’s gaze followed mine to Diego, then back to me with curiosity. “You two seem... comfortable.”
I busied myself with garnishing her drink. Lucy had no idea about my history with Diego. She’d already been married to Liam’s father—the asshat who shall not be named—by the time we’d gotten together. The next time I’d seen her, I’d already chosen law school over love.
“He offered to help out tonight.” I lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I’ve been running on fumes all week.”
Before Lucy could press further, the door swung open again, and in walked Kellan and Tate Fox, hand in hand and laughing about something.
I remembered hearing about their story—business partners who’d faked an engagement for some reason and ended up falling for real.
The gossip mill in Huckleberry Creek never stopped.
“Gillian!” Tate made her way to the bar. “I heard you were back. How’s the big city treating you?”
“Busy,” I answered honestly. “But it’s good to be home for a bit.”
“Home has a way of pulling you back.” Kellan’s gaze softened as he looked at his wife. “Sometimes what you’re looking for is right in front of you the whole time.”
Diego appeared at my side, our shoulders brushing as he reached for a bottle of tequila. The contact sent a warm jolt through me.
“Looks like Austen and Clint are having a good time.” He nodded toward the dance floor.
I followed his gaze to see Austen MacAvoy twirling under Clint Ramsey’s arm, both of them laughing.
I hadn’t really known Clint much beyond reputation.
He and Austen’s brother, Rhett, had been big high school football stars in their day.
Apparently there’d been some best friend’s baby sister romance action there since I’d been away.
“Remember when we used to dance like that?” Diego’s voice was a quiet rumble just for me. I shivered as it stroked over my skin like a physical touch.
The question hung between us, loaded with memories. Summers under string lights in this very bar. His hands on my waist, my head on his shoulder. The way we’d move together like we’d been dancing our whole lives.
“I remember.” I watched the couples on the floor with a pang of something like longing.
Lucy caught my eye from where she’d settled with Cord at a corner table, her expression curious.
I gave her a quick smile and turned back to the waiting customers, but as the band kicked off for the night with a rousing rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama,” my mind stayed on the music, on memories, and on the man working beside me who fit so seamlessly into my world—then and seemingly now.
I poured three tequila shots in quick succession, lining them up with the salt and lime wedges before sliding them across the bar.
The Jacksons—town basketball coach and his wife—cheered and clinked glasses with their visiting son, who’d just gotten into med school.
Another milestone celebrated in these walls.
My gaze drifted to the dance floor where couples moved in easy synchronicity.
Austen’s head was thrown back in laughter as Clint twirled her.
Lucy and Cord swayed together, foreheads touching, lost in their own world.
Even old Mr. and Mrs. Pelletier, who had to be pushing eighty, were shuffling along to the band’s country cover of an eighties love song.
When was the last time I’d danced like that? Or done anything purely for the enjoyment of it?
I mentally flipped through my calendar of the past year.
Client dinners at fancy restaurants, where conversation revolved around term sheets and due diligence.
Networking events with lukewarm chardonnay and calculated small talk.
The holiday party where my team celebrated closing the Franklin acquisition by drinking expensive bourbon and immediately checking our phones for the next crisis.
Fun wasn’t factored into my five-year plan. It was something I’d have time for later—after partner, after I’d proven myself, after I’d earned my place at the table.
“Whiskey sour?” Diego appeared at my elbow, breaking my reverie with a half-empty ice bucket.
“Right.” I snapped back to the present, grabbing the bottle of Maker’s. “Two of them for table six.”
Our hands brushed as I passed him the finished drinks, and a spark traveled from my fingertips straight to my core—the same electric current that had been snapping between us all night.
The simple contact made my breath catch, made me hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
My chest ached with a longing for something I wasn’t ready to admit, something that threatened to unravel the carefully constructed walls I’d built around my life.
Diego’s dark eyes searched my face, those warm brown depths seeing far more than I was comfortable with. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just...” I gestured vaguely toward the crowd moving to the music, my voice softer than I intended. “Thinking about things. About how different this all feels.”
The weight of unspoken words hung between us, heavy with possibility and memory. He looked at me like he could see straight through the polished corporate facade to the girl who used to spend summer nights in his arms.
Diego nodded slowly, understanding flickering across his features, but he didn’t push.
He never had been one to force conversations before they were ready to happen.
Instead, he grabbed a stack of empty glasses, his movements deliberately casual.
“I’ll give you some space to think.” He headed toward the washer with that easy grace that had always made my pulse quicken.
I mixed another round of drinks, my muscle memory taking over.
The truth was, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this present, this alive.
Every corporate victory came with another expectation, another rung to climb.
Every achievement was immediately overshadowed by the next target.
The only times I’d felt anything close to this were those scattered moments of triumph—winning a difficult negotiation, being tasked as lead on an important contract.
But those highs were fleeting, immediately replaced by the next deadline.
Here, despite the chaos and the physical demands, I was connected to something real. The weight of a glass in my hand. The genuine smiles of people I’d known my whole life. Being a part of celebrations and milestones that my big-city peers and colleagues would consider nothing at all.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked it quickly. Not work, just a text from Doc asking if I needed him to come in. I replied with a firm no and told him to go to bed.
I turned back to see Diego balancing four pint glasses between his hands, pouring draft beer with shocking ease.
I arched an eyebrow. “Showing off?”
“Impressing the locals.” He winked. “They tip better.”
I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in days. Possibly years.
The band transitioned to a cover of “Wagon Wheel,” and half the bar erupted in cheers, several more couples joining the dance floor. I felt a pang of something—not quite envy, but recognition of something missing.
You could have this, a voice whispered in my head. A life with moments like these.
I shut that thought down immediately. I wasn’t staying. I couldn’t stay. Less than a week left, then back to reality, back to the promotion I’d been working toward for years. Back to the life I’d chosen.
But as I watched Diego charm the table of middle-aged women by the window, his smile easy and genuine, another thought surfaced: What if the life you’ve chosen isn’t choosing you back?
I shook my head, focusing on the customer in front of me. I didn’t have the luxury of existential questions right now. The bar was still three-deep with thirsty patrons; Diego was waiting for the gin I needed to pass him; and somewhere in Chicago, a desk piled with contracts awaited my return.
For tonight, this was enough—the music, the laughter, the rhythm of the bar, and Diego’s steady presence beside me. Tomorrow’s questions could wait for tomorrow.