Page 31

But he doesn’t let me skirt around his question. “Who did this?”

“Bored teenagers. Just what I need, right? More dick problems. And here I thought I left all those at the altar.”

Shane chuckles, his shoulders relaxing. “Guess you’re not that lucky.”

“Guess not.” I wring out the sponge, splashing water on my pants on accident.

I’m a mess, wearing clothes I don’t care about. My ripped jeans are shredded at the thighs, and my bleach-stained T-shirt is cropped from where I cut it off as a teenager to show off my belly button piercing because, yes, I’ve had this shirt that long.

It would be nice if I could run into Shane when I have my shit together for once. But of course, he always approaches at the worst times.

I soak the sponge again, sloshing it over the glass. “I know what you’re thinking. Why do I even bother cleaning this up when the bar is a sinking ship, right?”

“Didn’t know it was a sinking ship.”

“Have you seen this place?” I step back, frustrated when the paint smears even more.

Shane takes the sponge from my hand, dips it into the bucket, and gets to work without asking if I need his help.

He erases a line of paint with more ease than I was having.

“Why bother trying to save it then?” he asks, wincing when he notices my frown. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t. But you’re the one who said it. If the bar really is a sinking ship, why bother?”

Glancing up at Ransack, I consider his question. The paint on the front is chipping. Two of the letters in Ransack are nearly washed away from weather and sun bleaching. Around them are hints of yellow, orange, and green from when Mom painted flowers on the wood, but you can’t tell that’s what they are anymore.

The bar pales in comparison to what it once was.

Memories linger in every beam, every splash of stain and smudge of paint. I can still hear the hammering from Dad hanging the welcome sign. I remember my brothers wrestling on the sidewalk, knocking a ladder into the front window the day it was installed.

When I look at Ransack, I see something that no longer exists, but I miss it.

“Because the second you stop treating something like you care—like it matters—that’s when it’s really over.” I look to Shane, finding him watching me. “Maybe I’m not ready to stop fighting for it yet.”

He hums, continuing to scrub the window until nearly all the spray paint is washed off or too dull to notice.

“Sorry I’m in a sour mood today.” I wring my wet hands together.

“You can be in whatever mood you want, Harloe. I’m the one who walked over here.”

“I know, but it’s unpleasant.”

“It’s fine.” Shane’s gaze snags mine through the reflection in the glass. “Be in whatever mood you want. If someone else doesn’t like it, that’s their problem.”

Shane scrubs the final spot of paint off the window and takes a step back, looking at it. The glass is foggy from the soap, so I’ll need to go over it again with cleaning solution, but it’s a start.

“You need paint for the doorframe, unfortunately. But the rest is good.” He tips his chin toward the lines that crossed over onto the wood.

“We have paint in the back. I’ll do that later.”

Shane nods, handing me the sponge. My fingers brush his as I take it from him, but he doesn’t immediately pull back. We stand, less than a foot apart. His fingers resting against mine on the sponge. The smell of soap and hot asphalt hangs between us.

It’s been a long time since I’ve looked into someone’s eyes and not immediately glanced away out of awkwardness. But Shane doesn’t blink. He stares at me for so long I swear I get lost in the different shades of brown, gold, and black in his dark gaze.

I wet my lips when his eyes fall to my mouth, and I can hardly breathe past the knot in my throat. He scans my face like he’s inspecting every freckle. Absorbing every twitch.

Shane Donovan is a bad idea. He admitted it himself. He’s not innocent by any means. But does it really matter?

I’m not looking for a relationship. Would it be so wrong to have a little fun? To take a break from all this pressure?