Page 4

Because love never sticks around.

A few hours later, as I step through the door of The Trading Post, the low hum of conversation wraps around me in a warm and easy way.

90s rock plays throughout the space—not make-your-ears-bleed loud, but enough to feel it.

The place has that well-loved, broken-in charm that tells me it’s been standing here long before craft cocktails and overpriced speakeasies took over the city.

Scanning the space as I move toward the bar, I start cataloging details and trying to decide if this place will become my new favorite.

In every place I’ve ever lived, I always find “my spot.” My go-to place where I can unwind.

Currently, that place is Sweet Wave, but since it’s closed at night, this place is moving its way up my list.

The brick walls are lined with old black-and-white photos, some of them framed, some just tacked up haphazardly like a growing collage of memories. The floors creak faintly under my feet, but it’s the good kind of creak—not falling apart, just worn smooth by years of steady foot traffic.

The bar itself is heavy wood. A row of battered leather barstools sits empty at one end, while most of the others are occupied by a mix of after-work drinkers I assume are the local regulars; they’re dressed nicely, but seem completely at ease at the bar, as if they’ve sat there a hundred times already.

A chalkboard menu hangs behind the bar, listing the night’s food feature in bold, uneven handwriting—MEATBALL THURSDAY: House-made meatballs braised in IPA, served seven ways.

Smirking, I wonder how many ways you can actually be served a meatball.

A faint hint of smoke and spice lingers in the air, not from cigarettes but from something wafting off the kitchen grill. The scent mixes with the familiar smell of hops, aged whiskey, and whatever cleaner they use on the tables—a scent that somehow manages to be comforting rather than harsh.

The bartender, a broad-shouldered, easygoing man around my age, nods in my direction as I slide onto a stool.

“What can I get you?” His smile is easy, and I bet he gets a lot of phone numbers when he flashes it.

I glance up at the menu and decide to keep up the spontaneity. “Whatever IPA is most popular.” He nods and gets to work.

"First time here?" a deep voice asks from beside me. I startle—I didn’t notice that I sat down only one stool away from a tall, dark-haired man.

I lift an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

He smirks. "You looked like you were cataloging the whole place before you even picked a seat."

I huff out a quiet laugh. He’s not wrong, but obviously I didn’t clock tall, dark, and handsome here.

"Just getting the lay of the land," I tell him, tapping a finger against the worn wood of the bar—right as the bartender sets a coaster in front of me and places the freshly pulled glass on top of it.

"The Postman’s Pint," the bartender says as he glances at the man beside me.

I take a sip. Hoppy, smooth, and just bitter enough. I can’t help nodding in approval.

Another point for The Trading Post.

“Whatcha drinking, Luke?” the bartender asks the guy next to me.

“I’ll have what she's having,” he says, winking at me. Alright, so he’s a regular since the bartender knows his first name.

“So you’re known around here?” I ask him. I was not expecting to hit it off with someone so quickly. Well, I shouldn’t say I’m hitting it off with him, but damn, I wasn’t even on the stool for a full minute.

His answering chuckle is low and sexy. He looks over his shoulder, taking in the place. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Okay. Cryptic, much?”

His smile is easy, and oh my gosh—this man is sexy in a rugged, outdoorsman kind of way.

My eyes dart down to his boots, then travel up his dark, jean-clad legs to his fitted shirt.

He clearly works out; I can see his biceps and the black ink swirling around his shoulder, peeking out of his shirt sleeve.

I spy a few more tattoos down his arm and a simple leather bracelet.

When I glance back at his face, he smirks.

“Alright, can I get either of you something to eat?” The bartender is back. “Luke, I trust that you’ll take care of our new patron here?” He tips is head toward me. “I’m Alex, by the way. Manager of this joint.”

“Future owner is more like it,” Luke adds, and Alex grins.

“Family owned. Just biding my time.” He places two cards in front of us.

“And you are…” I turn on my stool until I’m fully facing Luke. We haven’t been introduced yet, so I’ll play along.

“Luke Farley. Best friend of the future owner.” His smile is full and sexy as all get-out as he reaches out to shake my hand.

“Stella,” I offer. “And I’m new to town. Sort of, and to this bar.”

“Excuse me, but ignore this tool. He just introduced himself as my sidekick. I’m a one-man show, and my guy here is humble as fuck.

He owns a rock climbing gym, so don’t let him fool you.

” Alex shakes his head at me, as if to say, Who does this guy think he is?

Luke’s lips press together. It’s almost like he wants to reply, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just keeps his focus on me.

I slide my hand in his outstretched one, and I’m immediately engulfed in warmth. He gently squeezes my hand before letting go and says, “Guess it’s my lucky night, then. I don’t get out much either. Seems we both had the same idea.”

Seems so.

“Ah. Gotta love it—fate and meatballs.” Alex chuckles.

Yeah. I don’t know about the whole fate thing. I stifle an eye roll. I do know that I’m definitely interested in these meatballs…and this sexy man next to me.

Alright, Trading Post, you’ve got my attention. Let’s see if you can keep it.