Page 8

Izzy rolls her eyes. “Whatever. But admit it; youdospend a lot of time watching a man you refuse to admit you want.”

“I hate you both.”

“I’m just saying”—Izzy hops down and grabs her coat—“maybe you should let the sexy football player inbeforeyou become the ghost of Tinder regrets.” She winks and heads out the door.

“Drive carefully,” I call after her.

I glanced back toward Kolby.

He isn’t paying attention to the groupies anymore. He’s not even looking at them.

He’s watching me.

Like he felt the heat I’m trying to stuff down.

Like he knows.

And that’s what pisses me off the most.

Because maybe … he does.

“Subtle, Lo,” Maggie whispers, still perched on her stool, swinging her legs like a kid and smirking like the gremlin she is.

“Don’t you have tables to clear?” I ask, wiping foam off my wrist.

“I’m on break. Also, this? This is better than talking to these fools. You’re flustered.”

I don’t look at her. “I’m not flustered.”

“Youneverget flustered. Not even when a bachelorette puked in the tasting room sink and Jackson tried to mop it with a cocktail napkin.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’resofine,” she says in that tone that means she’s about to say something deeply unhinged. “Like, about-to-make-a-mistake-with-an-NFL-playa fine.”

My eyes flick toward him—Kolby Grimes. Broody, unsmiling, and built like every poor decision I’ve ever avoided making on purpose. He’s on the move, girls gawking after him, beer forgotten on the ledge behind him.

Maggie lets out a low whistle. “Tell me again how you don’t want to lick tequila off his abs.”

I drop the bar towel. “Jesus, Mags?—”

“Girl, you arestaring.Like, full-on, thigh-clenching, want-to-punch-him-or-make-out-with-him staring.”

“Jackson is literally five feet away,” I whisper-hiss.

“Yeah, and he’s slicing citrus like he’s auditioning forTop Chef: Bartender Edition.He doesn’t notice jack shit unless it sets off the fire alarm.”

Sure enough, Jackson’s muttering to himself while hacking a lime into oblivion.

From the kitchen, Mickey shouts, “I swear to God, if one more linebacker asks for more ranch, I’m throwing myself into the deep fryer!”

Welcome to playoff season at Brooks Brewery, one-part local pride, one part Knights team lockdown, all wrapped in low-level panic that something might go sideways. Again.

I risk one more glance toward where Grimes is heading.

Kolby looks at me. Not just looks—seesme. Like he’s been waiting for me to look back.

My breath catches. And I hate that it does.