One #2
“Evening, gentlemen,” I say, my voice smooth. “Welcome in. First time?”
Elias Andersson is the first to nod my way. “It is, ya. We heard good things.”
“Glad to hear it.” I force warmth into the words. The deal with the Wolves is in its early stages; I can’t afford to blow it because their newest star is my personal nightmare. “What can I get started for you?”
I take Elias’s order, then Brock’s—who asks for the locally brewed chocolate-orange stout he’s heard about.
I shift my attention to Gabriel. He lounges back in the booth, one arm slung over the back, legs wide, scrolling through his phone. Up close, he’s even more devastating. All sharp angles and oozing the kind of raw charisma that makes sane women stupid.
A ghost of a memory twinges in my chest, fragments surfacing of the girl I was before I learned exactly how much being stupid costs.
Don’t be stupid, Ivy.
Gabriel doesn’t glance up at me.
Clearing my throat, I manage a cordial: “Can I get you something?”
He looks up then, those golden eyes locking onto mine. For one treacherous heartbeat, I’m seventeen again, wondering if he’ll notice me.
Then his gaze drags over me—checking, cataloging—and the spell shatters.
“Whatever you have on tap is fine,” he says, his voice exactly as I remembered it. Low and rough-edged, carrying the lazy confidence of a man who’s used to getting catered to. “Surprise me.”
I stare at the top of his head. He’s already back on his phone, thumb scrolling as if the transaction closed the second he stopped talking. Heat crawls up my nape.
“You got it,” I say, gritting my teeth in what I hope appears pleasant.
I stalk back to the bar, each step measured. I’m a complete stranger to the man who wrecked my dreams.
Reaching past the standard taps, I grab the handle for Filthy Nasty—a hoppy IPA so bitter that Marco once said it tasted “pig-like with a harsh dose of nutmeg.”
Try to forget this, Castellano.
It’s petty. It fixes absolutely nothing about the past.
But I pull the handle anyway.
I balance the drinks on my tray and make my way back, steeling myself for round two.
Gabriel is holding court as I approach. He’s got his phone out, angled so the guys can see the screen—some highlight, some number, some proof.
“—signed with Bauer last month,” he’s saying, easy, like it bores him. “Darius says Gatorade’s already circling.”
“Circling.” Brock snorts into his water. “That what your agent calls a maybe?”
“Nothing’s a maybe when you’ve got my numbers.” Gabriel leans back, one arm hooked over the booth, expanding to fill every inch of it.
Elias says something low in Swedish. Brock laughs. Gabriel doesn’t—he just smiles, slow and certain.
And there it is. The version of him that plays to a room—louder, looser, more sure of himself the more eyes land on him.
I set down Elias’s Carlsberg first, a chilled glass beside it. Then Brock’s chocolate-orange stout, a perfect layer of head.
I move clockwise to place Gabriel’s beer. He doesn’t notice me. I’m furniture. Background noise.
Our arms collide.
It happens in slow motion. His elbow swings into my wrist. The heavy pint glass tips, and the Filthy Nasty IPA arcs through the air like liquid gold, landing squarely on his chest. The beer soaks instantly into the pristine white fabric of his henley.
For a single, suspended moment, everything is still.
Gabriel looks down at his ruined shirt. Then up at me. His face shuts down, eyes turning to cold amber.
“Seriously.”
Gabriel stands, avoiding the beer spilling from the ledge of the table onto his leather cushion.
“Do you have any idea what this shirt cost?”
“It’s called dry cleaning, Castellano.” The words escape before I can stop myself, but maintaining eye contact, I add, “I’m sure you can afford it.”
He steps closer, and I am acutely aware of the breadth of him—the shoulders, the sculpted jawline, the warm, spicy cologne. Cedar and cardamom, now with a hint of hops. I hate that I notice.
“Six hundred dollars,” he says, his voice a gritted rumble. “For a shirt you just ruined.”
“Your elbow caught my arm,” I shoot back.
I want to scream at him. But I can’t. Because somewhere in a filing cabinet, there is a piece of paper with my seventeen-year-old signature on it, legally binding me to swallow this exact rage.
Brock scratches his neck, craning his head as if searching for someone. Elias has developed a sudden, deep interest in the fine print of his Carlsberg.
Gabriel’s eyes move over my face—slow, recalibrating. I spot the moment he realizes I’m not going to apologize. My mouth twitches, and I bite my cheek to keep my composure, even as I watch his jaw tighten.
“You think that’s funny?”
“I think it’s laundry.”
He pulls the wet fabric from his chest with two fingers, his lip curling.
“We sell bar t-shirts,” I add. “Twenty bucks, but I’ll comp you one.”
Gabriel straightens, his flexing muscles visible through the drenched fabric.
“Bud.” Brock’s voice carries a quiet warning. “Leave it.”
Gabriel glares at Brock. Then back at me. Anger shutters behind his eyes.
The whole bar is watching. I feel it at my back—the stillness of a crowd that’s stopped pretending not to listen. Someone’s phone is up. I catch the light off the screen in my peripheral vision.
Gabriel notices. I clock the slight shift in his posture, the slow breath he releases—a man with a public image recalculating his next move.
“Just get me a towel,” he growls.
“Aye aye, captain,” I reply with an exaggerated salute, pulling a clean rag from my apron and dropping it onto the dry edge of the table. “Gender-neutral washrooms are just down the hall.”
He narrows his eyes, snatching the rag. Wordlessly, he turns and stalks toward the back hallway.
Brock catches my eye as I turn to go. He mouths sorry.
I shake my head—it’s fine, it doesn’t matter—and walk back to the bar.
It does matter.
I slip behind the counter and stand with my back to the room for three seconds, my palms flat against the cool steel of the drip tray.
He didn’t recognize you. I turn the thought over.
“Holy shit, Ives.” Delilah appears at my elbow, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my pulse is still rapid. “Can you grab a bucket and wipe down the booth? Before it ruins the leather.”
“On it.” She grabs the cleaning spray and a handful of towels.
I watch her march over to the Wolves’ table. Brock immediately stands up, his easy grin flashing as he takes the towels right out of her hands to help. I can’t make out what he says, but Delilah’s irritated expression falters, replaced by a surprised, genuine laugh.
I turn away and grab a fresh pint glass.
Pulling the tap, I fill it to the brim with Filthy Nasty IPA and carry the glass across the floor. Gabriel is still in the washroom when I reach the booth, so I set the heavy pint squarely on the table in front of his empty leather cushion.
Brock and Elias watch me in silence.
“Replacement,” I say, my voice perfectly level.
I turn my back on the table and walk away, the heavy bass thrumming under my boots.
To him, I’m nobody.
I hold that thought until it stops feeling like a wound, letting the anger harden into something sharp and useful.
Good.
Let’s see how long that lasts.