Chapter 2
Calla
The moment I pull into the small parking lot beside the bar, my stomach twists with regret. This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed home.
What was I thinking?
Still, I climb out of the car, closing the door as quietly as possible. My sneakers crunch against the gravel as I cross the dimly lit lot, each step forward a little slower than the last. I can already feel the hours pressing down on me.
When I reach the door, I pause, swallowing hard against the nausea rising in my throat. But my hand moves on instinct, closing around the metal handle.
I take a shaky breath.
And I pull it open.
Warm air rushes out to greet me, laced with soft notes of Christmas music and the rich scent of alcohol and aged wood. I step inside, but pause in the doorway, shrinking into myself as I scan the room.
It’s packed. My coworkers are everywhere, tucked into pockets of the bar, voices rising with bursts of laughter and animated conversation. The happiness feels suffocating, like it might swallow me whole.
My gaze is fixed to the floor, but there’s a quiet pull I can’t ignore. Like a magnet, my eyes lift—drawn forward by something.
Or someone.
My vision floats across the barstools, most of them surprisingly empty as my coworkers settle into corners and booths.
The bar itself is antique, dark and sturdy, a quiet contrast to the lighter floors and flickering sconces casting warm light from either side.
A massive vintage mirror spans the wall behind it, its gold trim glinting softly above neat rows of bottles that line the back shelf.
My eyes drift over them, searching for something I can drown in.
And that’s when I see him.
Our eyes lock, and it’s like I’m caught in his gravity. At this point, I know I’m staring, but he hasn’t looked away either. It’s like we’re stuck in this strange, silent standoff, and I’m not sure who’ll break it first.
The noise fades, and suddenly, it’s just me and him. He leans casually against the back of the bar, his presence quietly dominating, his expression unreadable. There’s a quiet intensity to him—like he’s built from something solid with a rawness hidden underneath.
He’s the most undeniably attractive man I’ve ever seen.
His stare pins me in place, and I can’t help but memorize him in return, trying to absorb every detail.
I take in the dark mess of waves in his hair, falling into his eyes—unkempt, like he’s always running his fingers through it.
His olive skin catches the bar’s light, almost golden, and the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones only make the softness of his face more striking.
A dark, vertical line climbs up his neck, stark against his skin, before disappearing behind his ear.
The longer I look, the more he feels like the sun, even though he brings darkness to the space.
His lips twist up into a faint, knowing smirk. It’s a fleeting shift in expression, but it feels like a challenge, and his eyes—so dark they’re almost black—hold me there, like a vise. My pulse jumps, and though every instinct tells me to look away, I can’t.
I don’t want to.
He nods toward the barstools, silently commanding me to sit.
I suck in a breath, startled by the sudden touch of a delicate hand on my arm. I jerk away, turning to see who grabbed me.
“Calla, I’m so glad you came! I haven’t seen you in forever!
” Hannah exclaims. Her voice is a little loud, a little too bright, drunk on an enthusiasm that makes her feel like a stranger.
It’s a stark contrast to the quiet, reserved Hannah I know at the office, and honestly, it’s a little unnerving.
I chew the inside of my cheek, already bracing for the small talk ahead. I’m drained before it even starts, itchy with discomfort. The familiar urge to escape creeps in.
Hannah grabs my arm, gently pulling me toward a group of coworkers huddled around the high tables to the left of the bar. Her touch is soft, almost reassuring, but it doesn’t cool the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
He’s still watching me.
After what feels like twenty minutes of forced small talk about wellness retreats, trendy superfoods, and everyone’s go-to self-care routines, the group begins to drift apart—some heading to the bar, others slipping into new conversations .
As the table empties, Hannah slides into a chair, watching me closely. When I don’t move, she gestures for me to sit. I do, and something shifts—her eyes lose their glassy edge, her voice turning low and somber.
“How are you holding up?” she asks, softer now, though still too loud for the space. She reaches across the table, her fingers curling softly around mine.
“I’m fine,” I say, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
She squeezes my hand. “I think about her a lot,” she says, her voice rising just enough to draw a few glances. “And I think about you. How alone you must feel.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My smile falters, and for a second, I’m back there—where everything fell apart. My throat tightens, the sting of unshed tears pricking the backs of my eyes.
But I force a shallow breath and say, “I’m okay,” even if it doesn’t feel true. It never does.
I squeeze her hand briefly, trying to break the sad spell that’s settled between us, then quickly let go.
“Okay, time for me to drink now,” I say, my laugh a little too forced to be natural.
A wide smile spreads across her face. With a loud clap of her hands, she slips off the chair and bounces to her feet.
“Great! You get a drink, I’ll hit the bathroom, and we’ll meet back at base camp. Ready? Break!”
She laughs loudly, the tension lifting as she hurries toward the back of the bar.
I sit for a beat, exhaling, trying to piece myself back together.
After another minute, I ease out of my chair and turn, bracing myself for the man behind the bar who caught my attention earlier.
But when I look up, it’s not him.
It’s someone else. Who’s also infuriatingly attractive.
He’s different, though. Not exactly my type, but undeniably charming in his own way.
His light brown hair falls in messy waves across his forehead, effortlessly tousled—like he just stepped off the beach.
Warm hazel eyes shine with mischief as he chats with patrons, his laugh carrying easily over their conversations.
There’s a quiet draw to him. Something open. Approachable.
Somehow, he makes the bar feel lighter. Safer. Like the kind of place you could lose track of time in.
As I move toward the bar, he spots me. With exaggerated flair, he steps out from behind the counter, sweeps his arm in a dramatic arc, and adds a playful curtsy that draws a few laughs from nearby patrons.
Despite the tears still threatening to spill, I can’t help but smile. I take a deep breath and slide onto a seat near the center of the bar.
“Milady,” he says with a smirk, dipping his head theatrically. “What can I get for you?”
“Gin and tonic, please.”
His eyes narrow, like he’s thinking something over. “I can do you one better.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs, already reaching for a bottle on the back shelf. “Do you trust me?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t even know you.”
“I’m Chase,” he says, extending a hand. “Now you do. And if you like gin, you’ll like this.”
He’s already moving before I can protest. I watch as his hands work with practiced ease, every motion fluid as he pulls bottles and mixers. I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to the muscles in his forearms, flexing subtly with each shake, pour, and stir.
A minute later, he slides the glass toward me with a dramatic bow. His grin is warm, boyish—and completely contagious.
“Lavender lemon gin fizz,” he announces proudly.
I take a small, tentative sip. A bright, floral flavor washes over my tongue, and a quiet moan escapes before I can stop it.
“Oh my God.”
“Not bad, huh?” He winks, already stepping away. “Flag me down if you need anything else!”
Another hour slips by as I sit at the bar, quietly observing. Chase—friendly, charismatic, undeniably talented Chase—has made me another of his signature drinks. The gin warms me, and the scent of aged wood and citrus settles over me like a blanket.
There’s a comfort here now that wasn’t there when I walked in.
I didn’t come here to have fun. But sitting at this bar, watching Chase’s ridiculous antics and letting the drinks melt the tension in my shoulders… I start to wonder what it might be like to feel normal again.
To let myself laugh without guilt.
To pretend, even just for tonight, that I’m not still drowning.
Chase suddenly glances up from the register, catching my eye.
“Hold down the fort for me?” he grins, already heading toward the back hallway.
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure the question was even meant for me.
A moment passes .
Then another.
I’m already halfway to spiraling, convinced someone’s about to ask me for a drink I can’t make—like I’ve somehow been left in charge—when someone new steps behind the bar.
He moves quietly, and I almost don’t notice him at first. Not until the air shifts, like the whole room bends around his presence.
It’s him. The man from earlier.
He grabs a glass without looking, every motion fluid, like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Let me guess,” he says, eyes still elsewhere. “Lavender lemon gin fizz?”
His voice is low and unbothered—a little dry, a little amused. It rolls over me like thunder through an open field.
I blink. “Um… yeah.”
When he finally looks at me, something shifts. It hits everywhere at once—like my body knows him in a way my mind can’t explain.
“He only makes them for girls he’s trying to impress,” he says. “Pretty, quiet girls.”
I straighten in my seat. “Excuse me?”
But his hands don’t slow. He grabs the same bottle of gin Chase used earlier, already pouring before I even realize he’s making something new.
“I said you’re pretty.”
The words come out like they mean nothing. Like it’s just a fact to be observed, catalogued, filed away.
I stare at him, stunned into silence.
“This is usually the part where people say thank you.”
I should say something. Tell him off. But all I can do is watch his hands. He moves like Chase does behind the bar, but there’s no show in it. Just purpose.
He turns to the back shelf, grabbing a bottle I don’t recognize, and returns without missing a step. “But don’t get your hopes up,” he says, pouring again. “There’s only one girl he’s interested in.”
He glances across the bar, then slides the glass toward me.
“What is it?”
He leans in, just enough to make the space between us feel intimate.
“Mine,” he whispers.
My breath catches.
He straightens up, turning away without another word, and disappears down the hallway just as Chase returns, wiping his hands on a bar towel.
My fingers curl around the glass, lifting it to my lips. One sip. It’s sharper than Chase’s. Less sweet. Bolder.
It tastes like temptation.
By now, most of my coworkers have either left or settled into the plush seating tucked into the far-right side of the bar, focused on their own conversations. The energy in the room has shifted—calmer now, less overwhelming.
I shift uncomfortably on the tall barstool, my legs tingling from dangling too long. I’ve made my appearance, had my drinks, and if I stay any longer, I won’t be able to drive.
It’s time to go.
Chase moves easily between customers to my right, a blur of motion and charming smiles.
But it’s not him I’m thinking about—it’s the other one. The man who made me that drink.
Who left behind a heat I can still feel in my chest, in my throat, in the space between my thighs.
Who claimed it, claimed me, with one whispered word: Mine.
I scan the hallway he disappeared down, but there’s no sign of him.
I clear my throat, trying to force myself back into the present, and the sound snaps Chase’s focus to me.
“Damn girl, another one?” he teases, nodding to my half-empty glass.
I shake my head quickly. “No, no. Driving,” I say, reaching for my wallet.
“Ah, she’s responsible,” he quips, turning to ring me out.
A moment later, he hands me my card back and I slip it into my wallet, glancing down the hallway one more time. Still empty.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” I say, standing and grabbing my bag.
“Yep, all the way down, turn right. You’ll see it on your right,” he calls over his shoulder.
“Mind watching my jacket?” I ask, draping it over the back of the barstool.
“Sure,” he says, winking. “But don’t be surprised if I’m wearing it when you get back. Green’s my color.”
I laugh under my breath and step away from the bar, letting the noise fade behind me. The hallway is dim and narrow, lined with framed photos I don’t stop to look at. My steps are quiet, but his voice still echoes—etched into my bones.