Page 4 of Deception & Daylight (Oak Ridge #3)

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m somewhat out of practice.

It’s been a while since I’ve picked up a girl in a bar.

It used to be my favorite pastime — right up until a sassy, brown-eyed pixie walked into my life and flipped my world on its axis without even trying.

Snap out of it, Barlow. Now's not the time to be thinking about her.

My eyes land on a tall blonde down the bar, wearing fuck me heels as she looks up at me through her lashes, her plump red lips wrapped around a cocktail straw.

She’s the polar opposite of Mags in every way, which should thrill me, but something about her prickles at the back of my mind.

Recognition dawns when a man slides into the seat next to her — it’s one of my clients. She’s very married and very off limits.

Liam returns with a heaping pile of nachos, stealing my attention away from the couple. “Thinking about joining a throuple?” He le ans in conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority they’re into sharing.”

“Think I’ll pass. I don’t shit where I eat.” I smirk, tossing a cheesy, jalapeno covered chip into my mouth. “Damn. These are good.”

Liam rests his elbows on the bar, snagging a chip from my plate. “You comin’ by the gym tomorrow?”

“Depends. Might be a long night,” I reply, leaving the clear insinuation hanging in the air.

Liam reaches into his pocket and tosses a condom across the bar. “Wrap it up. We don’t want any little Barlows running around this town.” Don’t I know it.

Discreetly sliding the condom into my shirt pocket, I lock eyes with a cute brunette swaying sensually on the dance floor.

She bites her bottom lip and crooks a finger for me to join her.

Her dark brown eyes are full of warning signs, but I stride up to her anyway, determined to find a distraction.

“Hi Miles,” she says, her voice little more than a breathy sigh.

“Have we met?”

She wraps her slender arms around my shoulders, craning her neck to look me in the eye. “No, but I’ve heard a lot about you.”She skates her finger down the bridge of my nose, but her touch has little effect on me.

I chuckle derisively. “Most of what you’ve heard is a lie.”

She hums in contemplation. “So… you don’t have a big dick?”

Quirking a brow, I say, “No, that part’s true.”

I lean in slightly, catching a whiff of her overpowering perfume, and I instantly recoil.

Everything about this feels wrong — almost like I’m cheating.

Part of me wants to stay and see it through, but there’s a much larger part that’s urging me to run in the opposite direction, and that’s the part that wins out in the end.

I make up a half-hearted excuse to leave, wave to Liam on my way out, and head home with my thoughts miles awa y — 800 miles, to be exact.

Despite the fact that Maggie has no concrete claim over me, she still somehow holds me captive.

I roll the windows down and let the breeze cool my heated skin on the drive back to the house, the dull hum of a country song on the radio drowned out by my warring emotions.

The truth of the situation is staring me right in the face, with no resolution to be had.

I can’t fix what’s already broken beyond repair and this helpless feeling only grows the more I try to move on.

By the end of the drive, I’m no better off than I was when I left the cottage.

I slam my fists against the steering wheel, frustration rolling off me in waves before I stomp into the house and fall into bed fully clothed, allowing sleep to take hold.

But even in dreams, I can't escape her. She’s woven into the very fabric of my being. Whether I want her there or not.

2 years ago

I have Maggie pushed up against the wall on the threshold of Paige and Cade’s kitchen, the mistletoe hanging tauntingly overhead. She keeps her brown eyes locked on mine, defiant and full of fire, as her hand gently glides down my torso.

“We shouldn’t,” I whisper, but my voice holds little conviction. My entire body is vibrating with the need to claim her.

“It’s bad luck if we don’t,” she murmurs.

I cup her cheek in my palm, my thumb skating along the underside of her jaw as I tilt her chin up ever so slightly.

Her lips part on a stuttered inhale, and her chest brushes against mine as I lean in for the kiss.

Just as our lips are about to touch, that goddamn cat cock blocks me all over again. Fuck.

Mags

Against my better judgement, I’m seated at a bar on Queen Street wearing my favorite little black dress with a cocktail in hand, but my mind is elsewhere.

I used to relish nights like these, but they don’t seem to hold the same weight for me anymore.

I spent years crafting a carefree facade in a desperate attempt to compensate for the profound emptiness left by a lonely childhood; a childhood marked by a stark absence of companionship and a pervasive sense of isolation.

But the memories only serve as a reminder that the hollowness can’t be filled with strangers in bars and fleeting one-night-stands.

Watching my best friend find happiness when her own childhood had been less than ideal provided a small flicker of hope amidst the desperation.

Her new life in the small, idyllic town is worthy of envy.

She’s surrounded by people who are bound to her by love and loyalty rather than blood, and I’m happy for her.

Truly. I’m not convinced it’s in the cards for me; I’d have to stay in one place long enough for that to happen.

Four and a half years in Toronto is about the longest I’ve ever been stagnant, and the urge to run is becoming more apparent by the day.

The bartender slides another drink across the bar, gesturing a few stools down at a guy in a red and blue hockey jersey who lifts his hand in a wave.

I force a smile towards the stranger, then meet the gaze of the handsome bartender.

His blue eyes are striking against his dark skin.

He leans in close, catching me by surprise when he says, “Don’t drink it.

He’s been shooting his shot with every pretty girl in this bar for the last two hours. ” So he thinks I’m pretty.

I lean my elbow on the surface, twirling the cocktail straw around the glass. “And I should turn down the free drink because?”

“If you accept, he’ll be over here in two seconds flat, and I know for a fact he’s not your type.”

My lips tip up into a flirty smirk. “How would you know that?”

He winks, sliding a coaster across to me with his name and number in black sharpie, disappearing down the bar without another word, and I watch his jean clad ass as he goes.

I don’t really have a type, but if I did, it might be bubble butts and rippling forearm muscles.

Before I can see if he has the latter, someone plops down next to me. “Hey, Maggie.”

Not many people call me Maggie, but for some reason, Mags doesn’t fit with the man sitting beside me, either. It feels too familiar. So I don't correct him. “Eric. What are you doing here?”

“The same thing you’re doing, I imagine.” He pauses, but I’m not sure what he wants me to say, so I opt to stay silent and let him fill in the blanks. “Enjoying a night out.”

“Right. How’s… um…” What the fuck is he studying again?

About a month ago, he agreed to meet me at a small coffee shop on Queen Street for the roommate interview after dad’s background check came up empty, and nothing about him stood out to me.

I was initially worried about living with a man, but the interview went well and he seemed like a decent guy.

It didn’t hurt that he came with references from a couple of my old college friends.

He laughs at my floundering, but doesn’t comment on it. “I’m studying sociology with a minor in criminology. One semester left until graduation.”

“Are you staying in Toronto after that?”

He shrugs. “My parents want me to move back to Alberta, but I’m not sure if that’s the right choice for me.” He glances up at the television above the bar, just in time to see the home team score the winning goal, and the bar erupts into cheers and applause as the players swarm the ice .

I’m suddenly mesmerized by the scene playing out on the screen as one of the players jumps over the boards and pulls a woman into his arms, kissing her like she’s the air he breathes.

I’ve never wanted to write a hockey romance until this very moment.

Another round of excited cheers rings out.

I lock eyes with Eric and we both laugh.

When the room quiets down again, our conversation picks up right where we left off, and it flows effortlessly after that.

It’s the most we’ve interacted since he moved in, and I’m actually grateful for the company.

“So, are you seeing anyone?” he asks.

Before I can answer, the sexy bartender, Isaiah according to the coaster, returns with another drink from hockey guy, despite the fact that I haven’t touched the first one. There’s an apologetic look on his face when he turns to leave, but damn, it’s fun to watch him go.

Snagging my attention from Isaiah’s impressive backside, Eric swipes the drink from the bar and downs it in one gulp, raising the empty glass to the stranger with a self-satisfied smirk in a weird show of possessiveness that sends up a bunch of red flags.

“Sorry,” he grimaces. “Didn’t mean to overstep, but that guy’s been watching you all night. ”

I’d been so preoccupied, I hadn’t noticed the unwanted attention — not since the first drink, anyway. I place my hand on Eric’s forearm, offering a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks. I never know what to do when that happens.”

“No worries. I should be getting back. I have an early class tomorrow. Do you need a ride?"

I shake my head. “Think I’m gonna stay a while longer.”

“Are you sure? It might not be safe out there alone.”

“I’ll be fine. I have my pepper spray.” Tucked away inside my handbag is a small quick release canister on a keychain.

As a woman living alone in a big city, I’ve learned to be vigilant.

I never want to be in a position to have to defend myself, but it’s just one of the harsh realities women face on a daily basis.

“Alright. It was nice hanging with you, Maggie. See you at home?”

“Yeah. See you.”

As soon as Eric is out of sight, my eyes lock on hockey guy and I flinch.

The intensity of his gaze sends an icy shiver skittering up my spine; his eyes like cold tendrils tracing the contours of my body.

I slap a few bills down on the bar. It’s enough to cover all the drinks, including the ones that were purchased for me, along with a generous tip for the bartender who does, in fact, have great forearms. Grabbing my bag from between my feet, I head out into the night with my pepper spray clutched in my first. When I make it to the subway unscathed, I relax into the seat, dozing off and on until they announce my stop.

By the time I arrive home, Eric is already in his room and I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing solitude awaits me in mine.

I’ve had enough socializing for one day, with men in particular.

Everything about my brief excursion has left a foul taste in my mouth, and I’m once again lamenting the fact that I’m attracted to the male species as a whole.

Sexy bartender notwithstanding — he seemed like a decent guy.

I pull the coaster out of my purse and glance at the name and phone number written in sharpie before unceremoniously tossing it into the trash.

If there’s one thing I can take away from this evening, it’s that I want nothing to do with men for the foreseeable future.

I’m contenting myself to a solitary existence.

At least until I figure out where I want to go next.

I tap out a quick text to let Paige know I made it home safely.

It’s a longstanding tradition, even if she’s no longer living with me.

She responds with a selfie of her in the bath, bubbles up to her neck and a glass of wine in hand.

The visual is so enticing, I find myself heading towards the kitchen for a bottle of red before trailing to the soaker tub in the main bathroom upstairs.

Running the water just below scorching, I add in a rose scented bath bomb and a generous amount of bubble bath, before stripping out of my clothes. I set the tray across the porcelain with a floral scented candle and place a glass of wine on the surface with my phone propped against the book stand.

I sink below the surface, letting the warmth seep into my bones in a gentle caress that demands my surrender, until my lungs begin to burn and I resurface with a gasp.

Leaning back against the bath pillow Paige left behind, I open up the photo app on my phone.

It’s muscle memory by now, tapping into the hidden folder.

The one that holds my secrets. The wound still feels as fresh as the day it was made, despite the time and distance, and I have to wonder what that means for me. Will I ever be ready to move on?