Page 8

A few hours into my shift, and what do you know? I am getting the hang of things. After shadowing Macy for the first few hours, I felt confident handling a few tables myself.

Despite being a Tuesday, Static has been nonstop busy since the doors opened earlier. According to Macy and Elsie, this is one of the more popular places for students to hang out. The three of us have hit it off, and, like me, both girls attend Huska.

The bell above the door rings as I pour a drink, signaling another round of customers. Usually, I ignore it, too focused on what I’m doing, but something about this time pulls my attention away from the beer to the door.

A group of four guys hovers around the hostess stand, but my eyes are drawn to only one.

It’s easy to pick him out when his features are burned into my memory. I’d recognize that midnight-black hair anywhere.

The quickening of my pulse is another sure sign that it’s him. For whatever reason, it never occurred to me that I might bump into him here.

I watch as his attention drifts from his friends and then shifts in my direction. Somehow, despite the noise and the crowd, his amber eyes immediately find mine.

My face heats at being caught staring, but I can’t look away. I want to keep staring.

His sole attention on me sends a wave of goosebumps over my skin like someone running a finger down my bare spine. It feels sort of…erotic.

An odd expression flits across his face, and I wonder if he feels it too—this undeniably intense, almost hypnotic attraction between us.

When his friends are led to a table, he doesn’t immediately follow. My eyes widen as I watch him take one, two, then three steps in my direct—

“Shit!” I yelp, jumping back as cold beer sloshes over the rim of the glass and onto my hand.

I release the handle, cutting off the flow of beer, and shake the excess liquid from my hand.

One of the bartenders comes to my aid, handing me a black dishcloth. “Everything good?”

“Thanks. Yeah, just got distracted,” I mutter quickly, taking the cloth from her.

“Happens to the best of us,” Brittany says easily.

Feeling all sorts of frazzled, I can’t do more than smile and nod.

I keep my head bent as I clean up the mess but brave a peek from beneath my lashes. The space he occupied is now vacant, and I refuse to acknowledge the disappointment weaving through me.

I pour the beer into a clean glass and hand it off without issue. As I walk away from the table, I try to keep my gaze forward, but curiosity gets the better of me, and my head swivels left, then right.

I hope my non-existent acting skills have miraculously developed overnight, making it seem like I'm simply checking on tables and not scanning the room for anyone in particular.

I tell myself that I’m only looking for him so I know what areas to avoid.

I don’t think my nerves could handle balancing a tray of food around him. That disaster waiting to happen I mentioned to Preston? Yeah, it might just come to fruition. Yet, I can’t ignore the tiny part that, for some crazy reason, wants an excuse to talk to him again.

I breathe a little easier when I spot the four of them in a booth at the start of Owen’s section. His broad, muscular back faces me, and either it’s pure coincidence or he senses my gaze, because he shifts as if about to look over his shoulder.

Knowing I have barely two seconds before he has a direct line of sight of me staring at him, again , I rush toward the bar to put as much distance between us as possible. I’m so focused on getting away that I nearly collide with Macy.

“Whoa, there,” she says, steadying me with her hands. “What’s going on? You look flustered.” Her brows knit in concern as she scans my face.

“Me? I’m totally fine.” I force out, but Macy doesn’t look convinced. I smile, but my lips refuse to cooperate, turning it into more of a grimace. “Really, I’m good,” I try again with more conviction in my tone.

The frown between her brows slowly eases. “Okay, well, let me know if tonight’s too much, too soon.”

“Not at all, you were right. I am getting the hang of things.”

“Good, I knew you would. Shout if you need anything,” she says before heading toward a table.

I veer off toward the kitchen to check up on an order I keyed in and spot Elsie looking around frantically with a tray of food. I wonder if I had that same look when I nearly ran into Macy. If so, no wonder she didn’t believe me when I told her I was fine.

When Elsie catches sight of me, relief floods her face.

“Bear, thank goodness you’re here. Can you take this over to table fourteen for me? I have to use the bathroom— that time of the month,” she explains, making a face.

“Absolutely. Go do what you need to; I’ve got this,” I reassure her.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. For a split second, I thought I’d have to explain this to Owen. Poor guy might never look at me the same.”

We both laugh in understanding, never mind that having a period is one of the most natural things in the world. Once she hands me the tray, she speed-walks toward the bathroom.

I’m not too familiar with the layout of the tables, so it takes me a minute to figure out where table fourteen is, and when I do, my steps falter.

Table fourteen is a booth in front of table fifteen, which is the start of Owen’s section. And it’s currently occupied by—you guessed it—a group of four boys. One of whom I can’t seem to get out of my head.

The thought of asking Macy to take over for me crosses my mind, but I quickly realize how ridiculous I’m being. I don’t need someone rescuing me from a situation I’ve probably made ten times worse in my head.

His friends are talking pretty animatedly to each other. The odds of him paying attention to what’s happening behind him are low. Factor in the noise levels, and he may not even hear me, let alone realize it’s me.

This is not a big deal, Bear.

I plaster on a smile and make my way to the table.

“Hey there,” I say in greeting, balancing the tray on the table's edge.

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know he’s heard me. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see his back stiffen slightly, but he doesn’t turn around. Swallowing hard, I force myself to keep going, ignoring my heart pounding in my chest.

“Who ordered the grilled chicken burger with sweet potato fries?”

A girl around my age lifts her hand in answer, thanking me as I place her food down.

Turning to the guy on my right, I say, “That must mean you got the beef burger with fries.”

“Sure did,” he confirms with a grin.

“Enjoy your dinner. Let us know if you need anything else.”

I leave them to their meal, heading in a direction that’s anywhere but here. Halfway to the bar, I sense him behind me—my stomach dips, and heat radiates at my back from his presence, but I force myself to keep walking.

With every step I take, he follows, but I refuse to stop until a hand reaches out and forces me to. I spin around quickly, not looking up at him. I don’t trust myself enough to resist those whiskey-colored eyes that seem to draw me in so effortlessly.

Instead, my gaze locks onto the hand wrapped loosely around my wrist. His tan fingers are long and slender, the heat from his palm sending tingles up my arm. I resist the urge to pull away. Not because he’s hurting me, but because it feels too good having his skin brand mine.

My traitorous mind wonders what it would be like to have those hands explore other parts of my body, parts far more sensitive than my wrist.

When his hand gently squeezes mine, I snap my gaze to his, afraid I may have said that last part out loud.

His expression is solemn, almost regretful, and it’s such a stark contrast to the sly grin and cocky attitude he sported before that I’m not sure what to say or do.

“Bear, I wanted to say I’m—”

“ Ohmigod , I thought it was you!”

A voice akin to nails on a chalkboard cuts him off, and he scowls at someone over my shoulder.

When I follow the direction of the voice, I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Of course, it’s attached to what can only be described as a redheaded Barbie. Whoever she is, she’s overdressed for a place like Static and way too eager to see someone who looks like he’d be anywhere but in her line of sight.

Barbie makes a beeline for us, and I quickly pull my hand free from his hold. He looks like he’s about to make another grab for it, but I narrow my eyes at him in a silent warning. His brow lifts as if to say, “ Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

I swallow down my response when redheaded Barbie slides in between us. She barely glances in my direction, instead focusing all her attention on him.

“I can’t believe I bumped into you here, of all places,” she practically purrs, curling a hand around his shoulder.

The move is possessive, almost sensual. And it’s like she knows she can get away with it. Either because she's just that confident or worse—she’s done it before.

I don’t know what happened between them, but something tells me it wasn’t nothing.

Was she the person in his shower yesterday?

The thought stirs something sharp and ugly inside me.

I have never been the jealous or possessive type, yet here I am, ready to peel every single one of her fingers off someone I have no claim over.

“Sadie, nice seeing you again.” His words are polite enough, but his tone is flat.

Sadie either doesn't notice or care, still beaming up at him like he hung the moon.

She bats her fake eyelashes. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to see each other during summer break.”

It takes all my effort not to snort. God, can she be any more obvious?

And if Sadie is telling the truth, she couldn’t have been in his shower, so it must have been another girl. This is why I can't entertain anything with him. Not that I'm considering it, but if I were, this proves it would be a mistake.

My face must betray the irritation thrumming beneath my skin because his gaze finds mine instead of hers when he responds.

“We were in the middle of something.” He shrugs his shoulder hard enough for her hand to slip off.

Watching it fall to her side, where it should have stayed, makes me bite my lower lip to hide my smile. Knowing he’s shutting her down shouldn’t make me this elated.

Sadie scowls at me like it’s my fault he’s not interested in talking to her, but I ignore her. I’m not the threat she thinks I am.

“Actually, we weren’t.” Ignoring the tick in his jaw, I stick to my guns. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

It may not be as satisfying as slamming a door in his face, but it still feels damn good walking away without looking back.