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The longer I watch her, the more obvious it becomes that she’s working overtime to avoid me. She laughs a little too loud, talks a little too fast, her eyes darting around the room but never landing on me. It’s subtle enough that no one else seems to notice, but I do. I know the difference between her real laugh and the one that’s just filling space.
“What crawled up your ass?” Rowan mutters, sliding into the chair next to me.
I grunt, taking another swig of beer I don’t even taste. “Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying your honeymoon glow or whatever?”
“I am. Doesn’t mean I can’t also notice when my best friend is miserable.” He leans back, studying me. “You gonna fix this?”
“Nothin’ to fix.”
Across the table, Whitley throws her head back in laughter at something Violet says, exposing the column of her throat.
Rowan gives me a look that says don’t bullshit me. “You told me you fucked it up, Beau.”
I stiffen. “Didn’t realize I was drunk dialing my therapist.”
He snorts. “You were just being honest, which is how I know this isn’t nothing.”
I grip the bottle tighter, wishing I hadn’t said a damn thing.
“Just drop it,” I mutter.
My attention snaps back to Whitley when she stands, smoothing her dress before heading to the bar. She leans against the polished wood, signaling the bartender with a practiced flick of her wrist.
That’s exactly when some dirtbag lowlife appears at her side. He’s always in here putting on some false charm and snatching up a different girl every other night. He’s tall and blond with the kind of practiced smile that says he’s used to getting what he wants. Designer watch. Expensive haircut. One of those guys who probably has “entrepreneur” in his dating profile but really just lives off daddy’s money.
He slides up next to her, way too close, his shoulder brushing hers. I can see his mouth moving, and I watch as Whitley turns to him with that polite smile she uses on strangers.
But then she laughs, and it’s enough to make the guy lean in closer, placing his hand on the small of her back like he’s earned that right.
Something hot and ugly coils in my chest.
“You good?” Rowan asks, following my gaze.
I drain my beer in one long pull. “I’m fine,” I grunt, setting the empty bottle down with more force than necessary.
Every muscle in my body tenses as I watch the scene unfold at the bar. The guy’s leaning in, whispering something in her ear now. His hand has moved lower, fingers splayed possessively across her hip. I grip the edge of the table, forcing myself to stay seated.
This isn’t my damn business. The guy is clearly a tool, but Whitley is free to do whatever…and whoever, she wants. Even if the thought makes me want to puke.
Whitley shifts slightly, creating a sliver of space between them. I clock it immediately, but the guy doesn’t take the hint. He leans closer, his chest practically pressing against her shoulder. Her smile falters for a second.
“That guy’s being pretty forward,” Violet murmurs, glancing back at the bar with concern.
I say nothing, just watch. Whitley can handle herself. She doesn’t need me swooping in like some caveman, even if my jaw is clenching tight enough for my teeth to crack.
The bartender slides her drink across the counter. She reaches for it, clearly ready to escape, but the guy blocks her path.
That’s it. That’s the fucking line, and this asshole just crossed it.
I push back from the table, my chair scraping hard against the floor.
“Where are you—?” Rowan starts, but I’m already moving.
Not mine. Not my business.
But no one puts her in a corner.
I move through the crowd with purpose, tunnel vision locked on the bar. Her hair’s a beacon in this dim, loud place. So is the way she shifts her weight, her polite smile plastered on like a shield. What I catch of their conversation makes my blood boil.
