Page 19 of Pin My Alpha
His palm is warm, his grip firm.
He doesn’t look at the mark on my arm again, and I pretend not to notice.
Shay
“Your Thursday numbers are terrible.”
I look up from my laptop. Declan is watching me from his stool across the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of water. The only lights on are the ones directly overhead, trapping us in a pool of warm yellow. Everything else is shadows and the faint, sharp smell of lemon cleaner.
“Thursday is trivia,” he says, his voice quiet in the empty room.
“Thursday is a social club for people who already come here. It’s not getting new customers, it’s a weekly meetup with fries.”
“They buy beer.”
“Not enough beer.”
He leans back, and the corner of his mouth ticks up. I hate that I know what his almost-smile looks like. I hate more that seeing it sends a stupid, irritating jolt right through my stomach. Apparently, getting bitten by a bar owner means my insides are now contractually obligated to be embarrassing about him.
Perfect.
I click over to the next tab on my spreadsheet, forcing my eyes to stay on the numbers. They drift anyway.
His sleeve is pushed up to his elbow, and the dark mark I left on the inside of his forearm is impossible to ignore. My teeth. For a second, I can taste the salt on his skin, feel the low rumble in his chest right before I—
I drag my laptop a few inches closer, like a flimsy metal shield will do a damn thing.
“Okay,” I say, my voice too sharp. “Community engagement. Your loyal customers are the only thing keeping you from being swallowed by that corporate garbage fire down the street.”
“You have a way with words.”
“It was a compliment. You should be worried.” I point at the screen. “Your base is solid, but it’s not growing.”
He takes a slow sip of water, still watching me with that steady gaze that’s deeply inconvenient. I’ve had people stare at me my whole life. But Declan doesn’t look at me like he’s trying to figure me out or win an argument.
He looks at me like he trusts me.
It’s what I’m here for. I did the research. I ran the numbers. I know what I’m talking about. But him just sitting there, listening, makes my skin feel too tight. Trust is part of the deal. That’s all this is.
“The problem,” I say, tapping the bar top, “is that you think you’re competing with them. You’re not. Byrne’s already has a voice. It’s just buried.”
Declan leans forward slightly, his expression shifting from tired to curious. “Buried under what?”
“Under trying to be places you’ll never be. The spot with the fake ivy wall and the neon sign? That’s for people who want to take a picture of a cocktail they won’t finish. The sports bar is for screaming at screens. The chain wants to turn this block into a beige nightmare with branded shot glasses and inspirational quotes on their Instagram.”
He makes a face. “Inspirational quotes?”
“It’s bleak,” I confirm. “So you stop trying to be them. You’re Byrne’s. People have stories about this place. First dates. Last dates. The night Jude Park tried to convince some poor sophomore he was a minor celebrity because his thirst trap got reposted.”
A slow, real smile spreads across Declan’s face, erasing some of the lines around his eyes. “I remember that. His version involved a sponsorship deal.”
“There was no sponsorship deal. He just wanted to get laid.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“Probably for the best.”
