“You wanna grab a drink before we sit?” Rowan asks.
“God, yes.”
“Should we…leave them unsupervised?”
I glance toward Whitley just in time to see her lean in and say something that has Beau’s eyes narrowing. “Probably not for long, honestly.”
Rowan chuckles beside me, and we head to the bar. We wait for our drinks, and the tattooed menace with the softest eyes I’ve ever seen watches me like I’m the only calm in a room full of chaos.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, heart kicking a little. “Yeah. It’s just…weird.”
“Seeing me in the wild?”
“No,” I say, smiling. “Feeling like this doesn’t have to be hard.”
He studies me for a beat, then leans closer. His voice is low, meant for me and no one else. “It doesn’t. Not anymore.”
The air stretches between us, warm and heady, and I want to bottle it.
“You’re staring,” I scold, cheeks warming.
“I’ve waited a long time to.” He grins. “But also, I think I just heard your best friend threaten Beau with a friendship bracelet.”
“God help him,” I whisper.
We make our way back to the booth with a round of drinks just in time to hear Whitley say, “Do you ever smile?”
“Not recreationally,” Beau replies.
I slide into the booth and open my mouth, maybe to smooth things over, but Beau’s gaze darts to me. His scowl softens ever so slightly.
“It’s good to see you again, Violet.”
I blink, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s still all steel and scowl, but something in his eyes tugs at my chest.
“You too,” I say.
“Oh, I like you already,” Whitley muses.
“I’m gonna need that drink,” Beau mutters, not even halfway through the one he’s holding.
“Same.” Whitley turns to him with a bright, unapologetic smile. “We can unpack your trust issues together.”
Rowan laughs, which draws Whitley’s attention instantly.
“So, Rowan,” she says. “What’s the deal with the tattoos? Are they decorations, or is there some deep, personal growth thing happening?”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I glance at him. For a second, his face is unreadable. Then he shrugs.
“Personal growth? Nah. Mostly…bad decisions.”
Whitley snorts. “Give me one. Something I can hold over your head later.”
His lips twitch. “I’ve got a few,” he says, and then his gaze softens on me. “But some stories are better left untold.”
Then he leans in just a fraction, voice dropping so only I hear. “Maybe I’ll tell you one later. Just you, though.”