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The crowd swells, a night too busy to keep up with thanks to some of the changes Walker has implemented. The serve-your-own beer station has been going great. And for a moment, I'm grateful for the distraction of people and orders.
As the night drags on, I lose sight of Walker. But there’s work to be done, and I keep it up until it’s time to close the place up. Only then do I peek at my phone and see a message from Walker.
I'm going to be out of the country for a meeting.
The letters blur, the words confirming my deepest dread. He's slipping through my fingers, retreating to a world where I cannot follow, where women in red dresses drag him away to “business meetings”. My heart sinks, heavy with the weight of a reality I can no longer deny.
I thumb the screen off. With a breath that feels like the first in hours, I prepare the bar for closing and get things done with my head down and my sleeves rolled up.
I poke at the eggs on my plate with a fork, trying to convince my upset stomach that they’re food and perfectly fine. But my body isn’t having it. The persistent buzz of my phone on the table doesn’t so much as draw a glance from me.
“Isla, you're torturing yourself.” Amber's voice is laced with concern and a hint of exasperation. I glance up, meeting her gaze.
“I'm not torturing myself,” I say, my words lacking conviction as I punctuate them by jabbing my fork viciously into the eggs. “I'm being realistic.”
The phone buzzes, Walker's name flashes across the screen. Without missing a beat, I press decline, wondering what the point of silent mode is if it still buzzes and makes noise.
“Beautiful doesn't mean better, you know.” Amber leans against the counter, arms folded as if she's preparing for battle. “You don't give yourself enough credit.”
“That doesn't change facts,” I say. “And facts say he's a playboy with a penchant for model-types.”
“Isla...” There's a warning in Amber's tone.
“Amber, please.” The plea tumbles out, sounding as weary as I feel. “Just drop it. I don't love him.”
But my heart clenches at the lie.
Three days crawl by with agonizing slowness, each one marked by the silence of my phone – silenced notifications and my ability to ignore the buzzing. My finger hovers over the call log more times than I care to admit, each contact entry and unread message a reminder of what I'm trying to leave behind.
I sit in front of my laptop, looking over my grades. “Top of the class,” I mutter to myself, tracing a line of text with my finger. It should feel triumphant, this academic success, but the pride is overshadowed by the ache of my heart.
Walker's world feels a million miles away now. But I have something of my own to cling to – my career, my success, my independence.
I learned my lesson and I got some amazing memories out of the deal, which I assume, with time, won’t hurt so much.
My life has become a blur of work, sleep, school, and restless nights spent tossing and turning. The clink of glasses and the low hum of conversation are comforting as I wipe down the bar. My mind is elsewhere—on unread messages and unanswered calls. Why is it so hard to just… sever the connection?
The door swings open, jolting me back to the present.
I glance up, and there he is: Walker, parting the crowd like he owns the place. Which is true, so that makes sense. His presence commands everyone’s attention and the buzz of conversations stop. But he seems to notice none of it as he closes the gap between him and me.
“Isla,” he says, his deep, smooth voice stealing all my attention. He's close now, too close, his hand reaching out to stop me as I try to sidestep him, to escape, maybe just disappear.
“Let me go,” I say weakly, but his grasp is firm yet gentle, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that reveals the secret we've been keeping—even from ourselves.
“What happened?” he asks, his thumb stroking the back of my hand, sending a current of unwanted warmth and desire through me. “Why didn't you take my calls?”
“Can we not do this here?” I mutter, glancing around at the prying eyes. Some are patrons I know by name, others coworkers who watch with curiosity.
But I know that Walker won’t stop until he gets the truth out of me. “I... thought you were with that woman in red.”
For a moment, there's a flicker of confusion across his features, a crease forming between his furrowed brows. Then, his expression clears, and the faintest smile plays at the corner of his lips.
“Oh, Isla,” he says. “She's a work associate. And she'd chase you, darling.” His use of the pet name sends a shiver down my spine. “You're jealous.”
There's no point denying it, not when he's looking at me like that, like he can see right through me. I nod, feeling both foolish and relieved—and oddly dizzy.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost to himself, as though marveling at a discovery. “Jealous, and for me.”
