Chapter 10
Vivian
I’m lining up bottles on the counter, organizing the tequila shelf for the third time, mostly to keep my hands busy but there’s this itch in the back of my mind I can’t seem to shake. A quiet kind of curiosity that’s been eating at me since Miles left this morning.
I don’t know why it’s been stuck in my head—Miles and his past. I know he was taken in by Greg’s family. I know they’ve been close since they were kids. But the why? And now that I’ve gotten to know Miles a little more, I can’t help but wonder what happened.
I wipe down the counter a little too hard and clear my throat.
“Hey, Greg?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low.
He doesn’t look at me right away, too focused on wiping down a glass and lining it up behind the bar, but I see the flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes.
“Yeah?” he replies.
I hesitate, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “Can I ask you something personal?”
Now he glances over, just a quick beat, then goes back to sorting the clean glasses. “Course you can.”
I swallow and reach for another bottle. “It’s not really my business, but why did your family take Miles in?”
The second the words leave my mouth I regret how direct they sound.
Greg pauses for a breath too long. Not dramatic, just enough for me to catch it.
He lets out a low breath, still focused on the counter.
“It’s a long story,” he says finally, not unkind, just…cautious. “Let’s just say he didn’t have the easiest childhood, but luckily my family was able to support him.”
I freeze at those words.
Not because they’re harsh, but because of the way Greg says them. Flat. Final. Like even mentioning it takes something out of him.
“I’m sorry it’s not really my business to talk about it,” he says as he dusts his hands on his jeans.
The tension stretches between us, sticky and awkward, so I scramble to shift gears. “It’s okay. So, uh…where’s your sister?”
Last he told me, his sister moved out a couple of months back to live with her fiancé who he and his parents don’t approve of. Greg’s parents, and I guess Miles parents too, live on the other side of the town in the suburbs area.
Greg lets out a breath and shakes his head, jaw tightening a little. “New York. Still with that prick of a fiancé.”
Yikes.
“Sorry to hear that,” I offer, adjusting the bottles on the bar. “Think she’ll visit soon?”
He lifts his gaze, those dark eyes pinning me in place for a second. “Maybe…someday. When she comes to her senses and leaves him.”
I give him a soft smile and reach out, running a comforting hand down his arm. But before I can say anything else, the front door swings open and a gust of cool air brings in the first wave of regulars.
Boots hit the hardwood. Laughter fills the space. A few rowdy voices shout hellos and orders before they’re even halfway to the bar.
Greg tosses me a look, half amused, half here we go and turns the radio on. “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” blares from the speakers.
He pinches my hip playful and unexpected. I laugh, shaking my head as I reach for the shot glasses.
“Happy hour waits for no one,” he says with a wink.
* * *
Wiping the sweat off my forehead, I start clearing the tables, collecting empty pint glasses, crumpled napkins, and the occasional forgotten ball cap. Happy hour finished about fifty minutes ago, the noise thinning out into a hum of low conversations and buzzed laughter. I glance at my phone—7 p.m.
Less than two hours left.
“Nice one, Viv,” Greg says, clapping his hands on my shoulders from behind and giving me a playful shake.
I let out a breathy laugh, leaning into the moment. “We’re the dream team.”
He grins as I load the dishwasher with a pile of pint glasses and sticky shot cups, the two of us working in sync like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
And then the door opens again.
I glance up out of habit, expecting another regular or someone already tipsy enough to be cut off.
Instead, I catch the broad frame of Miles walking in.
Shoulders squared. No cowboy hat tonight.
Just his dark hair, slightly messy yet intact, except for that one rogue strand that falls onto his forehead, like it has a mind of its own.
He’s quite famous here in Bluebell Hollow, so of course, people start talking.
“Look, it’s Miles Sanchez.”
“He’s so hot.”
“He can tie me up any day.”
“Can I get your autograph?”
He signs the young man’s T-shirt, and that’s when I notice right beside him is a woman I don’t recognize.
She’s tall—taller than me—even without the heels, she’s confidently striding in with her small waist, model-like figure.
Curled blonde hair that bounces with every step, smart skirt and button-up shirt like she’s heading to a meeting rather than a dive bar.
Blue eyes sharp, mouth painted with a soft smile as she leans into him, saying something that makes him huff a laugh.
I wipe my hands on a bar towel a little too aggressively, watching as Miles heads to a booth, the mystery girl walking just a little too close.
Greg notices the shift in me, the way my eyes have zoned in.
“You good?” he asks under his breath.
I blink, then shrug. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
But my hands are still scrubbing the same damn spot on the bar.
The young woman says something else, and Miles laughs again.
Greg heads over to take their drink order while I pretend to be deeply invested in arranging lemon wedges.
“Miles, hey!” Greg says as he pulls him in for one of those guy hugs, clapping his back with a little too much enthusiasm. Then he turns to the blonde. “Hey, Mya, nice to see you again.”
I blink, trying to keep my face neutral as I rinse out a pint glass, even though my stomach just did a tiny somersault.
Mya hugs Greg back, arms around his shoulders like it’s not their first time, and as she does, her eyes meet mine across the bar. Just for a second. I look away fast, zeroing in on the customer who’s stepped up in front of me like I didn’t just get caught watching.
“Rum and Coke, please,” the guy says. Dark blond. Young. Way too confident. His eyes flick to my chest, straight down to the few buttons I’ve left undone on my shirt and then back to my face like I didn’t notice.
Gross.
I pour the drink and try not to roll my eyes straight into the back of my head. Over his shoulder, I catch Miles and Mya still talking, smiling even. Laughing like they all go way back.
Is she his fling? A friend? Someone he used to hook up with?
God. Why do I care?
I mean, isn’t this what he does? Flirts with women and moves onto the next?
I slide the rum and Coke across the counter just as he tosses down a crumpled ten.
“Keep the change,” he says with a wink, sauntering back to his booth like he didn’t just make my skin crawl.
I exhale and grab another glass to polish, keeping my hands busy because my thoughts are all over the damn place.
Over someone I shouldn’t give a damn about.
I hate myself for feeling like this.
From the corner of my eye, I can see his figure coming closer.
“Hey,” Miles says when he reaches the bar, his voice low and casual like nothing’s out of the ordinary.
I glance at him, then at Mya, then back at him. “Hey,” I reply flatly, drying my hands on a towel a little more forcefully than necessary.
His brow lifts slightly, eyes scanning my face. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I answer, offering a smile that feels about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
He looks like he wants to press me on it, but Greg walks by, arms full of glasses, muttering about a sticky spill near table seven. Miles lingers for a second, then turns to join Mya in the booth, though not without one last look over his shoulder.
Greg rattles off Miles’s order, one pint of beer and a wild berry cider.
I nod, pull the tap, and let the amber liquid fill the glass. The cider follows, bright and fizzy, splashing pink along the rim. I place both drinks on the tray, take a steadying breath, and smooth the front of my top before walking over to their booth.
The conversation hushes the second I reach them.
“Here you go,” I say, setting their drinks down with practiced ease.
“Thanks,” Miles says with a grin on his face.
“Thank you,” the blonde chimes in, her smile warm but sharp. Her eyes, so blue they almost look unreal, lock onto mine. Like twin sapphires, clear and unblinking. There’s a pause, just long enough for it to feel intentional, then she smiles. It’s polite, poised.
I smile back at them. “No problem,” I say, then head toward a table in need of clearing.
I’m reaching for a glass someone left too close to the edge of the table when I feel it.
A hand.
Low. Too low.
I tense instantly, twisting around to find the same dark blond guy from earlier, the one who ordered the rum and Coke and tipped me like he was doing me a favor, grinning like he’s the hero of his own story.
“You’ve been teasing me all night, sweetheart,” he says, fingers tightening. “You gonna make me work for it, or what?”
Before I can answer, he pulls me closer, smirking, reeking of cheap whiskey and ego.
“Not interested,” I say flatly, pushing his body away from mine.
My eyes flick to the bar where Greg’s standing. He’s already moving, his brows drawn tight as he heads toward us.
The last thing I want is for this to turn into a scene.
“Oh, come on,” the guy murmurs, his voice slick with confidence as he leans in. His breath fans hot against my ear, making my stomach twist. “I can make you feel good. I’m very giving, dollface.”
I cringe, bile rising in my throat. My fingers curl into a fist, ready to shove him off, but before I can say another word, a voice cuts through the tension behind me, sharp, steady, and unmistakably dangerous.
“Get your fucking hands off her.”
Miles.
He’s suddenly there, voice like thunder, fists already clenched. But the guy just laughs like it’s some kind of joke.
“She’s been giving me the eyes all night, man,” he slurs. “She wants it.”
I shove at his chest, disgust rolling through me like nausea. “Let go of me.”