Page 33 of Pin My Alpha
His shoulder connects with mine. It’s not an accident. The deliberate press of it vanishes as soon as it’s there, but the warmth stays, a jolt that goes straight through me. My hand tightens on the screwdriver I’m still holding.
I watch him go, the sway of his hips in those black jeans a problem I don’t have a solution for. The urge to follow him, to hook my fingers in the collar of my own Henley and drag him back, is a physical thing. I want to put my nose to that bite on his neck and just breathe until the world narrows to the mix of our scents.
Instead, I just stand here like an idiot.
“You look normal,” Tessa says, appearing at my elbow with a bucket of cleaning supplies.
“I am normal.”
“Sure.” She shoves the bucket into my hands. “Go help Callum with the windows before you start scenting the furniture.”
“I’m not—”
Her gaze slides to the bar towel Shay left on a stool, the one I haven’t been able to stop looking at.
I pick up the bucket.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, her mouth a flat, satisfied line.
By midafternoon, the place looks better than it has in years. The booths are scrubbed down, and the split seam in the corner upholstery is gone, replaced by Knox’s neat stitches. Benji’s left a stack of coasters on the bar, covered in sketches of snarling knots and crooked whiskey glasses. They look like they’ve always been here. Tessa’s already talking about getting a batch printed.
Jude’s photos are a blur of motion and noise. He gets one of Callum leaning against the bar while Milo laughs into his shoulder, and another of Rhys pretending not to smile while Jude drapes himself over his back. In the background of one shot, Knox is crouched by a table, and Benji’s hand is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.
Then Jude turns the phone on Shay.
“Okay, marketing genius,” he says. “Your turn. Stand by the new taps. Give me ‘secret weapon of the Byrne’s revival.’”
Shay doesn’t look up from the laptop at the end of the bar. “No.”
“C’mon. The campaign needs a face.”
“The bar has a face,” Shay says, still typing. “It’s yours. You’re in every shot.”
“My face sells.”
“It sells trouble.”
“Nightlife branding, baby.” Jude lowers the phone and looks at me. “Declan. Tell him.”
Every head in the room turns my way.
He’s standing there with the sleeves of my Henley pushed to his elbows, curls escaping the black headband, the dark mark of my teeth just visible over the collar. He looks tired and sharp and so much like he belongs here it feels like a punch to the gut.
“A picture probably helps,” I say. My voice sounds rough.
Shay’s head snaps up. The look he gives me is pure betrayal.
Jude lets out a triumphant gasp. “See? The owner has spoken.”
Shay exhales through his nose, a sharp, angry sound. “Fine. One. Then you’re deleting it if I hate it.”
“Deal.” Jude waves him over. “Stand closer to Declan.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Jude.” The word is a warning.
