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Lynsie smirks under her face mask. “Thought so. You’re hoping for a little post-illegal activity flirtation.”

“I’m hoping for a beer and plausible deniability.”

She heads off toward her car. I take a moment to hustle the paint cans and ladder back into my trunk, slamming it shut with a shaky exhale. Evidence stowed, heart pounding, I catch up to Lynsie as she’s unlocking her door.

“Come on, Banksy,” she calls, waving me toward my own car. “Let’s get you a drink before you start tagging your love notes on police cruisers.”

I may not be as talented as the famous street artist, but I follow her direction, tucking what I just did back into the box of mistakes I keep in my soul. This wasn’t the plan. But maybe it’s exactly what I need.

A drink. A distraction.

And maybe a glance from the only guy I’ve ever wanted to notice me on purpose, but who has now put hockey before me and our fledgling relationship.

By the time we pull out of the lot—me in my car, Lynsie right behind—the adrenaline’s already crashing and my hands are starting to thaw. I drive through town in silence, the streetlights blurring past and my stomach tangled in knots equal parts nerves and regret.

As my fingers grip the steering wheel, all I can think about is Brogan standing guard at the door. Both of us park outside Power Play, and I force a smile, trying to shake off the cold and the panic. Maybe all I need is a drink, a distraction, and a glimpse of him acting like everything’s normal—even if nothing feels normal anymore.

Power Play is buzzing in that warm, lowkey way it always does when the snow falls heavy and the regulars pile in like the storm’s a sign from God to drink more whiskey. Virgil’s already staked out his usual spot by the jukebox, and his mutt, Hank, is asleep under a barstool.

Lynsie and I step inside, the heat hitting my cheeks like a hug from the universe. I peel off my gloves, shoving them deep into my coat pockets.

Since it’s my night off, Beth has Brogan behind the bar while she’s in the kitchen.

And sweet mother of meatballs, he looks good.

Like, unfairly good. Black Slammer’s tee clinging to all the muscles that did very questionable things to me a few nights ago. He’s shaking a cocktail. Focused. Intense. Completely unaware that he’s the star of a whole damn romcom unfolding in my chest.

Lynsie nudges me hard enough to send me bumping into a barstool. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring,” I mutter, climbing onto the stool and clutching the edge like it’ll save me from drowning in my feelings.

“You’re picturing him naked.”

“Am not.”

“You already saw him naked.”

“That’s not the point!”

Brogan glances up just then, and his whole face lights up. It’s subtle—like a sunrise. Slow and soft and entirely dangerous.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. When you’re not on the clock, you shouldn’t be here.”

Lynsie slips onto the stool next to me. “We were committing light vandalism but got cold.”

He blinks. “Come again?”

I elbow her. “Ignore her. We were just walking.”

“Uh huh,” he says, lips twitching. “What can I get you?”

“A beer,” I say quickly.

“A coffee with Baileys. Mostly Baileys,” Lynsie adds.

Brogan quirks a brow. “Rough walk?”

“Snowbanks and regrets,” I mutter.