Chapter 9 #3
I see a blonde in red heels gesturing for a man with a hat.
She does not see me. I could go. Walk over, play the role, let my head stop echoing Tori’s voice like it’s a drum.
Or I could leave. Save myself the morning-after shame and the story I tell myself about not being that man.
Or I could do something I haven’t practiced in a long time: be a decent human.
Skye’s grin widens to carnivore width as I edge toward them. She’s always had that look—like she’s found the game’s best seat. “Fancy seeing you here,” she says, sing-song and sharp. A trap with cushioned edges.
“Skye.” I nod. “Tori.”
“Leo.” Tori’s voice is steady, cool. My phone buzzes again.
At the bar. I think I see you?
I flip the phone over in my hand, thumb the screen and for the first time in years mute a match.
Skye’s mouth twitches at the motion. “Didn’t know you were a Harper’s guy,” she says.
“I’m not,” I say. “Came to meet someone.” Then, because honesty keeps tripping me up, “Changed my mind.”
Tori watches me with that unreadable expression—maybe relief, maybe judgment, maybe neither. I am not brave enough to ask for clarification. “You two good?” I say instead.
She studies me like she’s weighing whether to trust the scale. Finally, she nods. “We’re good.” Then softer, a breath that almost folds into confession: “We’re okay.”
The promise of that little okay lodges in my chest and for one ridiculous second I believe it. Then Skye shoves Tori with her elbow. “We were about to order food. Sit. Or go meet your Tinder twat and pretend you didn’t see us—I’ll only tattle on you to Alis about it.”
I should have kept moving. The blonde is still waving. I should have done the cheap thing. Instead, something in my ribs twists toward the honest option. “I’ll get the next round,” I say. “Food, too.” I find myself looking at Tori when I add, “No strings.”
Her face flickers—something unnameable—and she nods once.
Skye beams and I know my wallet won’t survive the night.
“Burgers. Fries. Pretzel with the beer cheese for scientific comparison to George’s bowl,” she declares.
I snort out a laugh. “His bowl is an artifact,” I say. “It belongs in a museum.”
I make the order at the bar, adding extra shots for good measure.
I text one thing to Kelsey—Can’t make it—and send without pausing for deflection.
Three dots blink and die. I set the phone face down and for the first time since the filing cabinet slammed shut at 5:04, I breathe without reconstructing every syllable in my head.
The bartender asks for a name. “Leo.” My name comes out simple, certain. For once, it feels like enough. I feel like enough. I’m not lacking in anything tonight.
I lean on the counter, let the noise wash over me until it fades into background hum—the thrum of glasses, laughter, music seeping out of the back room.
When I glance back, Skye is mid-story, blue hair slicing the air as her hands fly.
Tori listens, one corner of her mouth curved in a smile that isn’t armor, isn’t survival—just living.
That smile wraps around my cold, dead heart like a blanket, and for once, I don’t fight it. I don’t overthink it. I let it warm me, because I can still hear what she told me in my office Friday morning: she doesn’t have the time or space for me or my bullshit.
And maybe that’s the safety net I didn’t know I needed. Tori can’t hurt me if she doesn’t want me. Whatever this thing is—curiosity, infatuation, fascination—it won’t matter, because she’s not mine. She’ll never be mine. By the time her divorce papers are signed, this will have burned itself out.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
My thumb brushes the scuffed face of my grandfather’s watch, finds the dent that’s been there longer than I’ve been alive. George’s voice echoes in my head: So she’s the reason for the watch.
Maybe. Maybe not.
I pick up the shots and head back to the table. Skye’s hair is a neon sign in the dim light, Tori’s nails a streak of red against the wood. She’s the woman who told me thank you like it cost her something, like it was an apology for letting me see her truth. Her shame.
But she’ll see soon enough she has nothing to be ashamed of. Divorce, bruises, scars—none of it makes her small. And whether she thinks she has time for me or not, she’s stuck with me now. I might be a fuckboy, but I’m a damn good fuckboy to have as a friend. Skye would vouch for that.
I set the four tiny glasses down with a flourish. “I believe you beautiful ladies are in need of more alcohol.”
“Yas, bitch!” Skye slaps the table, hands out like a toddler begging for candy.
I slide two shots her way and push the others toward Tori. She lifts her brows. “None for you?”
“Not tonight, Tote. Someone has to drive your cute ass home.”
The shot is halfway to her mouth when she freezes, eyes narrowing at the nickname. Confusion creases her brow—what the fuck? written plain as day.
Before she can say a word, I guide the shot glass the rest of the way, steady pressure on her hand until she tips it back, swallows, and slams it down again. I release her slowly, only when her gaze flicks away, back where it should be—on letting loose with her best friend.
Because I’ve seen how tightly wound Victoria Foster is these past few weeks. And Friday, I saw exactly why.
If I can’t fuck the tension out of her, then at the very least I’ll make damn sure she’s safe while she unravels for a night out on the town.