Page 67 of Mr. Brightside

But before I can open my mouth, Teddy’s on the other side of the bar, yacking in my ear.

“Peaches, Jake. Peaches,” he whines, holding out the empty bottle of schnapps and reminding me of my intended destination. A flurry of bachelorette party attendees are circling the bar like vultures.

Right. Stock room. Peach schnapps. Now.

Technically, Dempsey’s the manager tonight, and he should have a key to the liquor cage, but a glance down the bar confirms that Dem’s doing what he does best: charming the pants off our customers and keeping the other guys on task. I smile and feel a little surge of gratitude for Dempsey Haas. He’s like all the best parts of Rhett and me rolled into one person. His life sorta sucks these days, but you wouldn’t know that from looking at him tonight.

I turn back to Drew and smile apologetically. “Sorry, man. We’re slammed. But it was good to see you. And hey, next one’s on me, okay?” I beckon Teddy back over, his eyes practically bugging out of his head when he sees the still-empty bottle in my hand. “I’m getting it,” I insist, before pointing to my former hookup. “Get my friend here whatever he wants; on the house.”

Teddy nods, and I turn to take my leave, clasping Drew on the shoulder as I move around him. “Take care of yourself,” I tell him in passing. No point in saying any more than that. We were only ever sex and good times.

I grasp the neck of the bottle in one hand and pull my keys out with the other. It’s more crowded in here than it was ten minutes ago, but I manage to navigate through the sea of bodies without getting stopped again.

That is, until I see him.

My man. My lover. My hot-as-hell husband, leaning against the back wall near the lineup of Hampton High football teams from the late seventies.

I take a sharp left and make a beeline for him. I missed him so damn much today. He didn’t have class, but he went to visit his abuela, then we didn’t have a chance to catch up before his shift.

“Hey you,” I say when I’m finally close enough for him to hear me. I lean in to give him a quick kiss, but falter when I see his steely expression.

“Hey,” he offers coolly, crossing his arms over his chest and making it impossible for me to wrap him in a hug.

I shift over and stand next to him instead, our arms brushing as I lean into the wall, too.

“You okay, baby?” I ask, tuning out the antics around us and trying to create some semblance of privacy. I creep my hand across the wall until my pinkie brushes his. He doesn’t recoil from my touch, but he doesn’t relax and hold my hand, either.

“Co-ry…” I brush my hand against his, willing him to look at me. I turn my head slowly in an effort to connect with him.

When he finally meets my gaze, his scowl is surprising. There’s fire behind his glare, but he also looks uncomfortable, like he’s in pain. My heart beats double time at his expression. Something’s seriously wrong.

“Hey, come with me. I’ve gotta get into the liquor cage, but we can—”

“I’m good,” he interjects. He pushes off the wall and turns to face me completely, that guarded look still dancing behind his chocolate brown eyes. “It looks like you havea lotof people to take care of tonight. I’ll just see you at home.”

Oh.

Ohhh.

This isn’t a blip of attitude or a random bad mood.

This has to be a direct reaction to whatever he saw—or thinks he saw—over the last few minutes. I glance at the clock on the wall behind the bar: it’s already after eleven. Cory got off at ten, and even if it took them a while to close over at Clinton’s, he’s probably been here for at least ten or fifteen minutes. That means he saw the bachelorette run her nails down my chest. And my former hookup with that lingering, all-too-comfortable hand on my arm.

He saw things. But he didn’t hear my replies. I would be all fired up too if there were multiple people pawing at my man.

I have to fix this. Now.

“Come with me,” I insist, grabbing his hand and catching him off guard so he has no choice but to follow. I push through the crush of bodies toward my original destination—down the back hall to the liquor cage. I can’t tell if he’s trying to pull out of my grasp or just getting swallowed up by the crowd, but I refuse to drop his hand, despite the tug of resistance.

I push into the back but don’t slow my pace. It’s not until we’re right outside the cage that I swing my arm around and trap him in an embrace.

“Baby,” I whisper huskily, weaving my fingers through the metal grates on either side of his head. “Look at me,” I command when he tries to avoid my gaze.

“What’s wrong, Cor? Talk to me.”

He keeps his head turned to the side—my stubborn, beautiful man—but he severely underestimates my tenacity if he thinks he can wait me out.

I run my nose up the column of his exposed neck, nudging against his jaw to get him to face me.