Page 47 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Sophia

I told myself I wasn’t falling for Corbin. That, whatever this feeling was, it couldn’t be heartbreak—we hadn’t even gotten far enough for that.

But the truth was there, painful and persistent, like a hangnail.

I wasn’t falling for Corbin. I fell.

And even if I stopped myself before I hit the bottom, I didn’t come away unscathed.

I tied more and more invisible threads tighter and tighter to him with every moment we shared—threads we just severed, cutting through them with our words in his car.

I was grateful for the clear divide between what we were and what we weren’t. I needed to keep my head on straight. Focus on me, focus on my future.

I couldn’t do this again.

I couldn’t change my life’s course for a guy—couldn’t let my heart rule over my head.

Even if he was the most handsome man I think I’d ever seen in real life. Even if I found the pieces he shared with me endearing and wholesome, turning him from some untouchable Adonis to a beautifully imperfect man.

I wondered how many people knew the Corbin Buescher I knew? How his shattered past carved him from stone to this unyielding force. How beautiful his unguarded heart is. How gentle his rough hands could be.

I texted Devyn to let her know I’d be late meeting her and hurried to prepare for another long night .

A thick FedEx envelope was leaning against my apartment door after Corbin dropped me off. My heart fluttered in my chest before plunging into my stomach as I read through the offer from Buescher-Jones Publishing.

Salary, benefits, vacation days, holidays, sick days. Exactly the kind of career I had been dreaming of. But why did every high in my life seem to be met with a crashing low?

I shook my head, clearing my thoughts. Corbin and I might have ended before we had a real chance to begin, but a new chapter of my life was unfolding—one that was just for me.

I pulled on my black V-neck, the one with “Boomer’s, it’s dynamite” screen-printed across the back—and stared at my reflection, trying to convince myself that this was the beginning of something, not the end.

But no matter how hard I stared at the high-pony-tailed, soon-to-be-retired bartender in the mirror, I still ached for what almost was.

***

“You’re crazy if you think we’re missing out on five-dollar pitcher night. Besides, you need someone to drive you home.” Brent slurped some of the foam directly from the pitcher I handed him.

It was a slow night, even for a Monday, but we never closed before midnight. Even if it meant just one person stayed to work alone. Boomer’s was to remain a haven for anyone who wanted a late-night drink, no matter what. But not even the cheap draft special seemed to draw people in tonight.

Devyn had to catch an early flight and decided to spend the night at her parents’ house. They had bought her a ticket to her grandparents’ home in Puerto Rico. I told her to leave me tonight so she could finish packing and get some sleep before her long flight.

So, Sam, Brent, and Trevor decided to come and enjoy the cheap, stale beer from the weekend kegs that didn’t sell like we thought they would.

“This one is on me.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Brent attested.

“I insist,” I cut him off .

I was about to officially stop being a burden on my friends. In a few weeks, I would start my new job, and stop forcing them to uproot their lives just because I was such a failure.

“I have a big girl job I’m about to start. It’s about time I start repaying you guys,” I said as I wiped my hands on my jeans.

“You know you don’t owe us anything, Soph. We’re practically family. Family is there for each other, no matter what.” Brent smiled softly before tipping his pitcher at me. “But, thanks.”

I watched him retreat behind a partitioned wall where Trevor, Sam, and the dartboards were. His features were so much like Cassie’s, unchanging from our youth—authentic, real, familiar.

I couldn’t help but smile despite the hole in my chest left from my conversation with Corbin earlier. Things were coming together for me—sure not in the love department—but I had the most incredible group of people to rally behind me and a shiny new career on the horizon.

I glanced around the barroom. There was a couple quietly chatting in the corner. They slowly sipped the cocktails I made for them twenty minutes ago—no rush for another drink—no rush to be anywhere besides the quiet company of each other.

It was sweet… it made me want to puke.

I walked into the kitchen to find Paul, the other cook at Boomer's, leaning against the prep station, his face lit by the dull glow of his phone. He was quiet, the kind of guy who mostly kept to himself. Married, with a kid—maybe two? Honestly, I wasn’t sure.

What I did know was that he’d already finished most of his closing duties, judging by the spotless counters and the mop leaning against the wall.

The kitchen officially closed at ten, and he’d be leaving soon. He didn’t even look up when he spoke to me. “Slow night, huh?”

“Yep,” I replied, popping the “p” with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Right then, the chime of the front door echoed through the bar. Once. Twice. Then again. Paul and I exchanged glances as the sound of heavy footsteps filled the space.

We pushed through the swinging door together and were met by a flood of guys, at least thirty—maybe even forty—in mismatched hockey jerseys. Some had damp hair, fresh from a shower; others were still glistening with dried sweat.

“You guys still open?” one of the men asked .

He stood at the front of the pack, about my age, with curly blonde hair, warm walnut eyes, and a dimple that should’ve come with a warning label.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice a little unsure as I glanced at Paul.

“Great. We just finished a hockey tournament. Loser buys dinner for the winner, and this is the only place still open.”

As he approached the bar, I shot Paul a pleading stare. Closing the kitchen early was one of life’s greatest joys, and nothing was worse than having to undo hours of work to dirty it all up again.

I leaned toward him and whispered, “I’ll give you forty percent of my tips.”

Paul glanced at the horde, then back at me, shaking his head with a resigned sigh. “Deal. Bring me the tickets when you’re ready.” He sauntered back toward the kitchen with the slow, deliberate steps of a man whose peace had just been stolen.

I turned back to the dimpled blonde and his army of hungry teammates. “I’ll grab you some menus,” I said with a smile I planned to keep plastered on all night.

I hoped they were good tippers.

Behind me, I could practically hear Paul muttering under his breath before he entered the kitchen. I knew what he was thinking—I was thinking it, too.

So much for a slow night.