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Chase never would have sent me flowers; this kind of gift speaks a language he never understood. But I was willing to live without flowers, because he was perfect in every other way.
“Whoever sent you those,” Amber said with a smile, “he's a keeper.”
I pick up the card nestled among the stems, the paper crisp between my fingers. Unfolding it, I again read the message written in a neat, confident hand. Hard times pass and better comes along. You're going to be happy.
Amber joked that they sounded like a threat, but I didn’t hear that. No, the words resonate deep in my chest, bringing a sense of calm and hope.
I clutch the note, pressing it to my heart for a moment before placing it safely on the counter. Whoever sent this has suffered, understands the ebb and flow of pain, and the courage it takes to face another day. My pulse quickens at the thought of someone reaching out through this simple act of kindness.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the empty room, to the unknown sender, to the universe that might be trying to lift me up.
I rise, the orchids cradled in the crook of my arm as I search for a spot for them. They deserve sunlight, a chance to thrive and silently encourage me every day moving forward. I place them on the windowsill, touching a velvety petal as the morning rays cast a warm glow over their leaves.
“Hard times pass,” I whisper, letting the words seep into every fiber of my being. “And better comes along.”
My alarm sounds, the sound reminding me I need to get ready for work. With newfound determination, I start to gather my things, ready to face whatever challenges the day holds.
“Better comes along,” I say once more. And as I say the words, the image of Walker’s soft smile and tender look of concern fills my mind, as well as the less PG images of my dream last night. My cheeks flush red, and I let go of the past and start moving toward my future.
Chapter Thirteen
Walker
I’m staring at her. I shouldn’t be.
But she moves with a grace that's almost hypnotic, her smile lighting up the room and hitting me like a mean right hook to the face, because that smile is not aimed at me. She slides two shots of whiskey across the polished bar to a pair of young men who are watching her like she’s the only woman they’ve ever seen. One of them leans in and says something that has her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.
A low growl rumbles in my throat, my fingers twitching with the urge to beat those looks off their faces. It takes effort to keep my feet planted where they are, to not act on the possessive impulse clawing at me from the inside. I want to tell them she's off-limits, that they're playing with fire, but instead, I force my attention away. I scan the rest of the establishment. A strange sensation thrums through the air, alerting my senses to something not quite right.
“Another round, Walker?” Liam asks the person before him, his voice smooth like the top-shelf liquor he pours.
“Keep 'em coming,” the regular murmurs as I keep a watchful eye out.
Liam is the kind of guy who doesn't have to try; women just gravitate toward him like moths to a flame. I watch, half-amused, half-annoyed, as Cara sidles up to a booth with a man who has been watching her. She's all curves and confidence, bending forward just enough to offer a generous view down the front of her shirt to the man sitting there. His eyes take the plunge, and if I didn't know any better, I’d say Cara just winked at him.
“Subtle as always, Cara,” I say under my breath.
She's playing a dangerous game, but then again, we all are in this place where the night never seems to end, and everyone is looking for something more. Something like what I see in Isla's eyes every time our gazes lock—a yearning for something genuine amidst the pretense and free-flowing liquor.
Shaking my head, I push off from the bar and start pacing back and forth, but not before casting another glance at Isla. She's pouring another drink now, unaware of the effect she has on me—on us all. And as much as I try to deny it, I can't help but feel drawn to her.
“Everything good here?” I ask Liam as I pass by, my voice steady despite the intense desire for Isla that rages through me.
“Smooth sailing, boss,” he replies with a knowing look. He's seen enough to read between the lines, to understand the silent battle waging behind my stern facade. He also knows better than to overstep and keeps his thoughts to himself.
“Keep it that way,” I say, my words more for myself than him. Keep it cool, keep it controlled. That's how I've survived this long. That's how I'll keep surviving, even as every glance from Isla threatens to burn my self-control to the ground.
I watch as Cara walks behind the bar, her shoulder colliding with Isla’s, a deliberate and harsh move designed to start a fight. I don’t even hear the noise, but I see the exchange even as I pretend to be looking elsewhere.
Isla's stance firms, her jaw setting like concrete as she whirls to face Cara. My fingers twitch against the polished wood of the bar, itching to intervene. But I hold back and observe in silence.
“Stay out of my way. Some of us are trying to keep customers happy,” Cara says, her voice filled with venom.
Isla’s lips press into a flat line, but she doesn’t respond.
I will, though. “Hey, Cara, this is a bar, not a strip club. Please stop showing them everything.”
The gasp that follows from Isla is loud in the sudden silence, then low chatter begins to swirl around us.
