Page 5 of Pin My Alpha
He finally stops wiping. He folds the cloth, sets it down precisely. “You can go home, you know.”
His voice is low, calm. It does something physical to me. A hum low in my belly, a warning pulse between my legs that I refuse to name.
“I’m aware.”
“Your friends are going to be waiting for that text.”
“They can wait.”
He leans his hip against the back counter and just looks at me. Not a challenge, not a question. Just a quiet, steady regard that feels more intense than any alpha stare-down. He’s patient. He’s always patient. It’s infuriating.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a problem,” he says.
“Maybe I am.”
A slow smile touches his mouth. The real one. It’s barely there, a faint curve I’ve only seen a handful of times in three years. It lands in the center of my chest like a shot of whiskey, warm and stupid and completely unwelcome.
It’s enough to get me on my feet before I’ve made a decision to move.
The legs of my stool scrape against the floor. Each step toward him feels deliberate, final. This is a terrible idea. I should grab my jacket, make a joke, and leave with what’s left of my pride.
Instead, I stop right at the bar, plant my palms flat on the cool wood, and lean in.
Up close, the scent of him is a physical thing—cedar and woodsmoke and clean cotton, but underneath it something warmer now, something I can only describe as him. My body responds before my brain catches up: a rush of heat, the back of my neck prickling, that slick, treacherous ache low in my belly. I breathe him in and it’s like my pulse drops anchor.
He doesn’t move back. He doesn’t reach for me. He just watches, green eyes patient in a way that feels dangerous.
“Shay,” he says. Just my name. It’s a warning. An invitation. Both.
I tilt my chin up. This isn’t a plan. It’s a correction. I’ve spent three years pretending I don’t want him, and tonight some faceless profile stood me up and proved that pretending doesn’t protect anything. So I’m taking the night back. No strings. No need. I’ll stand this close to Declan Byrne, take what I want, and walk away clean.
“One night,” I say. My voice is steady, even if my pulse is hammering against my ribs. “No complications. Just… scratch an itch.” I hold his gaze, letting him see all of it. “Are you in, or are you just going to stand there looking responsible?”
Declan
Idon’t answer. If I open my mouth, something honest is going to come out, and honesty has no business being here right now.
Shay is still leaned over my bar, palms flat on the worn oak, watching me. Daring me. His scent is everywhere—sandalwood and dark chocolate turning sharp and argumentative, cutting through the background noise of stale beer and lemon polish. It gets in my lungs, under my skin. One stupid word hammers against the inside of my skull.
Mine.
I clamp my jaw on it.
He reads the silence as hesitation. “Well?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Did I finally manage to short-circuit the famous Byrne customer service skills?”
I just look at him. At the small scar that splits his eyebrow, the stubborn line of his jaw. He’s aiming for a smirk, but it isn’t quite landing. He got stood up tonight, and he’s been taking it out on anyone who’s tried to be kind to him since. This isn’t about sex. It’s about not going home alone.
That should be reason enough to shut this down.
Instead, I reach under the counter and kill the neon sign. The green Byrne’s in the window dies, plunging the bar into shadows.
Shay straightens up, his body going rigid.
The silence is sudden and heavy. I grab my keys from the hook by the register. The clink of metal sounds impossibly loud.
“Declan,” he says. His voice is different now. Quieter.
I come around the end of the bar and stop a few feet from him. He’s not a small guy, but I’ve still got a few inches on him, and I hate what that small fact does to me right now. The way it makes me want to close the distance, back him into a wall. His chest rises and falls too quickly under his shirt. He looks exhausted and furious and younger than he’s pretending to be.
