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“Is that any way to talk to your father?” James asks, the words loaded with condescension.
“Yes,” Walker says, his tone so frosty that I feel my body respond like I’ve stepped into the cold. “I don’t want to see you back here again. Understand?”
James’s lips curve into a slight, cruel - but tired - grin, one that speaks volumes about his feelings for his son. “You think you can fool all these people? For how long, Walker?”
Walker's knuckles whiten as they curl into fists at his sides. I sense the tension rising and step between the men.
“Maybe it’s better if you just go,” I say, my tone laced with sweetness I don't feel. I muster my most disarming smile, hoping to defuse the tension before it becomes something more dangerous. “I don’t want to have to call the cops again to trespass someone. I can walk you out.”
James holds his son’s gaze for a beat longer, the silent standoff between them making me hold my breath. Then, with a slow nod, he turns his attention to me. The edges of his eyes soften. “I’d like that,” he says.
I step from behind the bar and lead James toward the door, feeling Walker's stare burning into my back, but I don't dare look over my shoulder at him.
Outside, the evening air is cool against my skin, whisking away the heat of the bar. I walk James to his vehicle, a sleek black sedan that gleams under the moonlight.
“Be careful with that one,” he says, a hint of genuine concern seeping through his otherwise guarded expression.
I nod, as my mind races with unasked questions. What lies beneath the surface of Walker's cold exterior? What pain drives the fury in his eyes?
“Thank you for the drink,” James adds, his hand lingering on the door handle.
“Goodnight,” I say, watching as he slides into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life and I take a step back, thinking about everything he said and wondering what details were left out. There’s more to the story, I know it.
The parking lot is cloaked in shadows as I pivot back toward the bar, the gravel crunching beneath my heels. As I make my way back toward the door, I connect with Walker’s watchful stare across the lot.My whole body jolts and white-hot prickles dance across every inch of my skin.
“I didn’t know you were there,” I say, moving toward him.
“I’d never let you walk out without someone to make sure you were safe.”
That single comment dries up every drop of saliva in my mouth, the moment charged with an energy that sets my pulse thrumming.
“He really doesn’t like you,” I say, unable to stop myself from spilling the tea. I only like drama when I’m watching other people’s - I don’t like it in my own life.My voice is a mix of concern and curiosity, seeking the truth in his eyes.
“Yeah.” Walker's voice rumbles, deep and laced with anger. “Because when my stepmother stole from him, he took her side over mine.” The bitterness bites at the night air, but it's undercut by a raw, exposed hurt that seems to echo around the empty space between us.
What kind of father does that? Not a good one, that’s for sure.
“God, Walker, I—” I say, my heart going out to him as my arms want to bridge the gap and wind around him, offering comfort and understanding.
“Don’t.” He turns to me, the single word sharper than I expected. I stare up at him, stunned.
I know he’s hurting, after all, isn’t the saying that hurt people hurt people? Stepping in close and without saying a word, I wind my arms around his shoulders and pull him in close. The man needs a hug, and I’m not about to walk away.
Chapter Nine
Walker
All I can smell is her sweet perfume as the warmth of her seeps into the small space between our legs. We’re sitting in my cramped little office, and I’m focused on her.
“So, Isla, hit me with your ideas,” I say, leaning back in my chair and putting my hands behind my head, still intent on her face with a sense of both curiosity and something darker, more primal.
She lifts her phone, unlocking the screen, and I have the strangest feeling she’s trying really hard not to look at me.
“Okay, well,” she says, eyes darting up to meet mine before flitting away and confirming my thoughts. I can only wonder why she’s being evasive, because that’s not a question I could ask in this professional setting. Her voice is lyrical, a sound I’ve come to crave, even when the edges wobble with nerves like they are now. “I was thinking about a self-pour beer station.”
She hesitates, biting down on her lower lip like she’s expecting me to tell her that her idea is garbage. But it’s not.
I swivel my chair, a casual move that brings my leg into contact with her knee. It's electric, the momentary brush, and I can't help but notice the blush that rises up her neck to her cheeks. The pulse in her throat picks up speed, a delicate fluttering heartbeat I can almost feel against my skin.
