608 Alpha Avenue (Cherry Falls)

I should know. I’ve tried all three.

None of it compares to breathing the same air as Haley Morgan.

And that’s all kinds of fucked up.

I don’t get it. I don’t understand how it works. I only know that staying away from her doesn’t help—it only worsens the itch. An itch that she has no fucking idea about. Nor ever will.

I rest my forearms on top of the steering wheel and sigh.

If I were a relationship guy, I’d snatch Haley Morgan up quicker than you could say mine. And if I were a complete heathen, I’d have her beneath me even faster.

But I’m not either—a forever kind of dude, nor am I an utter hedonist.

So, I’m fucked. Plain and simple.

I see her every day except the days she doesn’t work at Fireside. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday evenings—the days she’s not on the calendar—I hike in the Wild Ridge Mountains to keep myself busy. The other nights, I pretend to love hockey or baseball or what-the fuck-ever is on the television at the bar and sit for as long as I can pull it off without looking like a creep. And she has no clue that I’m only there to be near her.

She’s forbidden, but as long as I don’t touch …

“I can’t play this little question-and-answer game with you, Haley,” I say, taking in every detail of her car as if it was her. “I can’t trust me not to grab you and fuck the shit right out of you.”

As if on cue, I hear her mischievous giggle echo through my ears.

I grin. “You’d like it, though. I just can’t do that to you.”

A handful of patrons trickle out of the bar. They pause on the sidewalk as a matte-black Harley roars into the parking lot. Tristan parks near the front door and climbs off his bike.

My heart sinks.

He slips off his helmet and runs a free hand through his hair, catching sight of me in the process. His face lights up as he smiles and motions for me to join him for a drink. I wave him off. I can’t possibly sit in there and knock back a cold one knowing that his employment is in my hands.

Fuck.

Guilt washes over me as Tristan disappears inside Fireside—and I don’t guilt easily. But he’s such a good guy—the best, really. The idea of having to let him go because we, as a Blake Brother cooperative, can’t figure out how to keep him around really eats at me.

“Then don’t let it come to that.”

Garret’s words ring through my brain, amplifying the tightness in my chest.

I take my hand off the gear shift. I look at Haley’s car and then back to the front door of the bar. As much as I want to go back inside—or, better yet, because of it—I don’t.

I hit the gas and speed out of the parking lot.

Three

Haley

“I can’t believe you got me to do this,” Kaylee Richards says, huffing and puffing beside me. Her face is beet red from the slight incline of Bride Street. “I don’t do physical activity.”

“It’s good for you,” I tell her, squinting into the morning sun. “It helps release stress and creates … some good vibes in your brain.” I laugh. “I’m a bartender and romance writer, not a doctor.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure my doctor told me to get some fresh air at my last appointment, anyway.”

Kaylee’s face falls. If we weren’t walking at a decent tempo, I’d pull her into a hug.

Lord knows she needs it.

“You’re better off without him, you know,” I say quietly.

She nods but doesn’t say anything.

“Any man who would leave their wife—especially you—and their child on a whim—”

“Let’s be real,” she says, her face now dangerously crimson. “Derrick left me—us—for a younger woman. Let’s call it what it is.”

I cringe and drop my gaze to my sneakers. I’m not that friend—the one who knows what helps soothes these sorts of wounds. But I do know that Derrick was a total asswipe to do what he did to Kaylee. She’s one of the kindest people I know, and the fact that she’s hurting slices my heart in two.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not good at knowing what to say in situations like these. I try to be helpful, but …”

Kaylee’s shoulder bumps mine. When I look up, her face is a more normal color, and she’s smiling. At least a little.

“You, my friend, have nothing to be sorry for,” she says. “You weren’t the vile hussy screwing my husband in the back of his Corolla.”

“Because I have standards. I’d at least choose a Mercedes.”

Or a big, black Chevrolet.

My feet falter as said truck roars toward us. I think in order to make that sound, the driver has to hit the gas hard or something. I don’t know how it works. I just know that when Kaylee and I reach the apex of the hill, and the Chevy comes into view, the engine makes a deep, throttle-y sound that zips right through my blood.