Page 36 of Pin My Alpha
And the worst part is, he’s right.
They leave in a noisy wave of last-minute instructions and scraped chair legs. Callum claps me on the shoulder, a solid, friendly weight. Rhys gives me a nod, promising to send those lawyer contacts over tonight.
On his way out, Jude points two fingers at me. “Don’t let him work all night.”
“I won’t.”
Shay makes a sound of protest. “I’m right here.”
“I know,” Jude says, and lets the door swing shut behind him.
And then it’s quiet.
Not empty. There are still crumbs on the counter, a coaster with Benji’s doodles on it left on a stool. The air is a mix of their scents—coffee and wool and old leather, layered over the sweet vanilla of Milo’s cookies.
Shay is standing by the door. He has his bag slung over one shoulder and the clipboard is tucked under his arm. He looks worn down at the edges, his curls finally loose from the headband. He keeps rubbing his thumb over the corner of theclipboard, like he’s trying to wear the plastic smooth. In his other hand, he’s holding the bar towel he’d left on the stool earlier.
“I should go,” he says.
He doesn’t move.
My heart is beating a heavy, stupid rhythm against my ribs. There are a dozen things I could say that would send him walking out that door. Too much, not enough, the wrong kind of pressure.
But he’s standing there in my shirt, holding the towel I use to wipe down my bar. He looks like he’s waiting for a reason not to leave.
“Stay,” I say. The word comes out rougher than I intended.
His head lifts. His eyes find mine across the room.
I swallow. “For the night. As, uh. A consultant’s fee.”
Jesus Christ. A consultant’s fee. It’s the dumbest string of words I’ve ever put together.
For a long moment, he just looks at me. I watch something shift in his expression, a flicker of uncertainty before it’s gone. His scent, which had been sharp and focused all day, softens. The whole room fills with the warm smell of sandalwood and dark chocolate.
Then he gives a short, single nod.
“Okay,” he says.
Shay
Istop by the door, my hand still on the strap of my bag. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Declan pauses, his fingers resting on the deadbolt. “Like what?”
“Like I just agreed to a hostage situation and I’m supposed to be grateful.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You agreed to dinner.”
“That’s how it starts. First it’s pasta. Then suddenly you’re in a basement learning to communicate via pipe-tapping.”
“The kitchen’s upstairs,” he says, his voice perfectly level. “No basement.”
“A detail a kidnapper would have prepared.”
He gives me that quiet look, the one that never feels like he’s laughing at me, even when I’m being an idiot. It’s worse than a laugh. I know how to handle being made fun of. This gentle, patient thing he does is like trying to punch water.
The bar is hollowed-out and strange without the noise and the bodies. Neon signs are dark, booths swallowed by shadows. Milo’s Tupperware containers are lined up on the counter likeevidence from a crime scene, and beside them is a coaster Benji’s been doodling on—a little skull wearing a crown.
