Page 30 of Pin My Alpha
Just the sound of our breathing, harsh in the dim light. I’m on the floor, my back pressed against the cool wood of the bar front, clutching the towel he gave me. It’s warm from his body, soft from a hundred washes, and I hate myself a little for how good it feels.
Slowly, Declan pulls up his jeans. The rasp of the zipper is loud. He doesn’t look at me, just gives me space. The quiet courtesy of it feels like another kind of pressure.
“Shay,” he says, his voice low.
I shake my head. Can’t look at him.
I push myself up, my knees aching. My jeans are a cold, sticky mess, and I fumble with the button, my fingers refusing to work properly. He sees them shaking. He doesn’t say a word. That might be the worst part of all.
The silence stretches. I have to fill it. My eyes land on the mess of papers scattered across the bar top. My spreadsheets.
I grab a stack, squaring the edges with a sharp rap against the counter. “Saturday,” I say. My voice sounds thin. “Not this one. The one after. I need lead time.”
He just watches me. “Okay.”
“We need a work day. A full one. The booth upholstery is a disaster, and I need to take photos for the social accounts that don’t look like they were shot on a potato during a power outage.” The words come out too fast, a jumble of tasks I’m usingas a shield. “And I need the lease paperwork. Rhys said he’d look at it.”
“You’re bringing your friends.” It’s not a question.
“It’s a prep day.” I finally risk a look at him.
He’s standing on the other side of the bar, his shirt rumpled. Where he shoved up his sleeve, I can see the faint, fading outline of my teeth on his forearm. My mark.
He looks at me like he’s already decided where I fit. Like he’s found something he wasn’t looking for and has no intention of putting it back.
My fingers tighten on the towel in my hand.
His gaze drops to it, then lifts back to my face. A whole conversation happens in that quiet space. He knows what I’m holding on to.
“Saturday,” I repeat, the word feeling flimsy.
“Saturday,” he agrees, his voice calm and steady.
And the truly fucked-up part is that for the first time in my life, I don’t want to run. I just want it to be Saturday.
Declan
“Absolutely not.”
Shay doesn’t even look up from his clipboard. He’s got my old Henley hanging loose over black jeans, and the bite mark at the side of his neck peeks over the collar every time he moves his head.
My bite.
I’m supposed to be helping Knox, who’s crouched beside a booth, checking the split seam in the upholstery. Instead, I’m just standing here with a screwdriver in my hand, my own scent thick in the air—cedar, whiskey, and something possessive enough to feel like a warning.
Two weeks he’s been at this now. Every night after close, laptop open at the end of my bar, arguing with me about napkin costs like the numbers personally offended him. Two weeks of him showing up in my shirt and daring me to say something about it. I haven’t.
Knox looks up. “You didn’t even hear what I asked.”
“Heard enough,” Shay says.
“I said Mateo can’t keep using duct tape on the back corner.”
“Correct. No duct tape.”
“That’s not what he said,” Benji calls from the next booth over, where he’s supposed to be supervising.
Knox gives him a flat look. “You want to come stitch this?”
