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“Rough day?” I ask, sliding the drink toward him as he watches the concoction blend together.
“Here you go,” I say, sliding the glass across the polished surface. Our fingers brush briefly, and he jolts as if I’ve shocked him. “I’m sorry.”
But he shakes his head. “No worries. Thanks.” He cradles the glass in his hands and stares into the depths of his drink, lost in thought, the lines of his face deep with worry.
“Hopefully, this helps a little,” I say, offering a tentative smile, hoping to offer support in the simple gesture.
He rewards me with a half-smile, the pain in his eyes easing for a moment. With a slight nod, he goes back to staring off into the void of whatever’s bothering him.
And as I glide behind the bar, scanning faces and catching bits of conversation as I move and serve the next customer, I wonder what else tonight will bring, because today has been a never-ending carousel of crazy.
Chapter Fifteen
Walker
My insides twist up and anger overheats me as I watch Isla lean in, laughter on her lips at something he said. The guy at the bar—tall, dark, and too damn close—hangs on every word that leaves Isla's mouth. He’d started the night off sad and broken looking, but under Isla’s attention, he’d perked up like a watered houseplant.
I know I should walk away, cool off, maybe even escape to the open fields of the farm and the comforting presence of my grandparents. But the thought of leaving her side, even for the span of a weekend, has my insides churning and my entire mind refusing.
I’m going to need to explore this obsession and see if I can get her out of my system, because she’s driving me mad.
“Looks like lover boy's about to reel her in,” Vice says, walking up beside me with a knowing expression written across his rugged features. His words scrape my already raw nerves, sparking an unreasonable anger that flares white hot through my veins.
I turn to him, clenching and unclenching my fists at my sides, trying to talk myself down from this unreasonable response. At least, unreasonable to anyone outside my head. My brain thinks I’m behaving in a perfectly reasonable manner.
“I'm glad you finally fired Cara,” he says, planting his hands on the bar and stretching his arms as he scans the place.
“She wasn't a good fit.” The words grind from my throat, my voice more controlled than I feel. Cara's departure sent a ripple through the bar like a cleansing tide—people are lighter, work flows smoother, and the men don't scatter like scared pigeons whenever she swoops into a room to stare at her from a safe distance.
Vice nods, eyes still locked on Isla. “Yeah, everyone's better off, especially since no one needs to dodge her anymore.” His gaze doesn’t waver from the two at the bar, where Isla’s smile seems to have the patron captivated.
I nod, though my attention isn't on Cara's absence or thoughts of the annoying woman. It's held by Isla, to the way her hand gestures punctuate her conversation, how her pretty hair falls in a cascading wave from her ponytail—she’s the drink and all the men here are dying of thirst in a desert.
Taking a deep breath, I push the heat down, trying to push down the possessive beast that rears its head and demands vengeance. I need to get away, get some air. Anything to distance myself from the toxic cocktail of desire and fury brewing inside me.
But I can’t seem to move from this spot. Especially when the man's hand brushes against Isla's arm. It's a simple gesture, but to me, it's a declaration of war. Every muscle in my body is wound up tight, ready to explode. He doesn't know that he's reaching into a lion's den, daring to touch what belongs to the king.
“Beautiful, isn't she?” Vice's voice is like a match tossed onto gasoline-soaked kindling, igniting a firestorm of rage in my gut.
“Shut up.” The words come out as a low growl. I can't look at her anymore—not with another man touching her. It should be my fingers on her silky-smooth skin.
“Whoa there,” Vice says with a chuckle, unbothered by my tone. “Need to step out and get some air?”
“Yeah.” I don’t trust myself to say more without giving away the extent of my desire for Isla. Pushing through the crowd, I head for the back door, seeking a moment to breathe in the cool night air. But before I can get more than a few steps, I hear Vice call out.
“Hey, what do you want to bet he gets her number?”
My fist clenches so tight I feel my nails biting into my palm. Betting on women used to be our thing—a game among predators. But Isla is no one's prey, and this is no game.
“Not interested.” I grit my teeth, my jaw set so hard I could crack teeth.
“Come on, man. Just for old time's sake.” Vice is pressing his luck, either oblivious to the line he's crossing, or well aware that he’s about to start a fight.
“Drop it, Vice.” There’s a warning in every word.
“Fine, fine,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender as I shove open the back door, stepping outside into the cold air that bites at my overheated skin.
But it does nothing to cool the anger boiling in my gut.
