Page 64 of Pin My Alpha
Pride swells in my chest, so sharp it feels like a blade.
Because every time someone calls him my partner tonight, my whole body jumps for it like a starving dog. And every time Shay hears it, he freezes for a split second before that polished, distant smile locks into place.
Temporary arrangement.
The words have been scraping around in my head for hours.
By nine, the bar is a wall of sound. By ten, we’re running low on the drink specials. By eleven, I’m exhausted, buzzing, and still standing behind this counter with a smile plastered on my face while people tell me how great everything looks.
“Your boyfriend did a hell of a job,” a regular says as I ring him up.
My jaw tightens.
Shay is three feet away, lining up a stack of coasters on the service mat. His movements are small, precise. He doesn’t look at either of us.
“He did,” I say.
The guy takes his receipt and wanders off into the crowd. The space he leaves feels huge and cold.
Shay keeps lining up the coasters, his movements small and exact.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice too quiet for the noise in the room.
His hands freeze. “Don’t what?”
“Pretend you didn’t hear him.”
He turns his head, just enough to catch me in his periphery. “I heard him.”
“And?”
“And I’m working.” His voice is flat. Final. A door shutting in my face.
Before I can push, Tessa is there with a clatter of empty glasses on a tray. “I need both of you to look like you’re having a good time at the party you’re throwing. Think you can manage that?”
Shay’s expression is unreadable. “I don’t have a problem with Declan.”
Which isn’t an answer. It would be easier if he did. He turns and walks away without another word, disappearing into the crowd near the back booths. I watch him go, the space he leaves behind feeling cold.
Tessa nudges me with her elbow. “Don’t make this a thing.”
“We’re not a thing.”
She gives me a look that could curdle beer.
“Bad phrasing,” I mutter.
“Try again when you’re not being an idiot.”
My gaze follows Shay. He’s standing near the table where his friends are packed into a booth, but he’s not talking to them. He’s just watching.
Then I see Soren, the youngest of the crew, let out a soft, surprised gasp. It’s barely audible, but Milo is on it in a second, leaning over the table. “What is it?”
Soren’s staring at the seat beside him. There’s a small wooden bird sitting next to his glass, no bigger than his palm. It’s carved from some pale wood, wings tucked in, head cocked like it’s listening to the music.
He picks it up like it’s alive. “Oh.”
Benji leans in. “Is that a pigeon?”
