Page 40 of Face Off

He sat at the far end of the long polished bar with one forearm resting against the dark wood and a beer near his hand. His black shirt followed the lean strength through his shoulders and back, while tattoos covered both arms beneath the warm pendant lights. His sunglasses hung from the front collar of his T-shirt, and his head remained lowered as he turned the beer bottle slowly between his fingers.

Fifteen months had changed him without making him unfamiliar.

He was broader through the shoulders than he’d been with Flint, his body sharpened by professional training and an entire season spent turning anger into goals. His hair was shorter, though enough remained on top to become disordered whenever he dragged his fingers through it. The scar across his right hand showed when he moved the bottle, pale against his skin and impossible to separate from the night he earned it after forcing our goodbye. I didn’t know exactly how he shattered it, only that it happened after I left that kitchen.

The sight of him reached every place I’d prepared to protect.

My pulse quickened, but the air continued moving through my lungs. I let the feeling exist without treating it like a warning.

Ryan saw me in the mirror behind the bar.

His hand stopped against the bottle. He didn’t turn immediately or tell me to leave, so I crossed the remaining distance and climbed onto the stool beside him.

One empty seat remained between us.

It felt intentional.

It also felt fair.

The bartender approached before I could speak. Ryan glanced at him and tipped his beer toward the shelves.

“Pour her a pinot noir.”

The order startled a smile out of me.

He remembered.

Fifteen months without speaking, and Ryan still remembered the wine I ordered whenever we met at the Sin Bin, the same one he always had chilling in his fridge.

The bartender reached toward the wine display, but I touched two fingers against the bar.

“I’d actually like a Tito’s on the rocks.”

Ryan turned toward me, one eyebrow lifting. “You’re drinking vodka now?”

I shrugged. “I only drank pinot noir because it was considered acceptable. I give considerably fewer fucks about expectations these days.”

His gaze remained on my face long enough to make every nerve beneath my skin aware of him.

Then the corner of his mouth threatened to move. “That explains the hair,” he said.

I touched one of the blonde waves resting over my shoulder. “Do you hate it?”

The question left before I could reconsider it, carrying more vulnerability than I intended to bring into the first minute.

Ryan’s eyes followed my hand. He took in the pale blonde, the strawberry-gold pieces threaded through it, and the darker roots my stylist had erased two days earlier.

“No.”

I waited.

His attention returned to mine. “It looks good.”

“Thank you.”

The bartender set the vodka over ice in front of me. He was probably near our age, with rolled shirtsleeves, dark hair, and the effortless smile of a man who made most of his money by convincing wedding guests they were more interesting after two drinks.

He winked when he released the glass. “Let me know if you need anything else.”