Page 62 of Pin My Alpha
I know the difference now. That’s the fucked-up part. A few weeks ago, Shay Thompson was just the prickly, beautiful kid who sat at the end of my bar. Now I know the sharp, polite smile he uses on customers, and the real one he’s been hiding from me all night—the way he rubs his thumb over the inside of his wrist when he’s holding himself together.
He’s been doing it since the doors opened.
Six days since Sunday. Six days of one-word texts and campaign checklists, of him being everywhere in my bar and nowhere near me.
His gaze shifts toward the bar, like he feels me watching him.
Our eyes meet. The noise of the party—the music, the clink of glasses, Diego laughing by the door—thins into a dull hum. All I can smell is him. Sandalwood and dark chocolate and something like cool rain. It cuts straight through the beer and lime and the new citrus cleaner Tessa bought.
The possessiveness that lives under my skin gives a low, ugly twist.
The line of his jaw is tight. That tiny, faded scar through his eyebrow catches the light from the new sign. My hand tightens on the rag, and I want, with a sudden, stupid violence, to cross the room and put my thumb right on that scar. To tilt his head back and press my mouth under his jaw where his scent is strongest, and just stay there until he stops pretending this isn’t real.
His expression flattens into something unreadable.
He looks away.
“Wow,” Jude says quietly, right beside my elbow. “You two are doing great.”
“Don’t start.”
He leans his elbows on the bar. “I was going to say the place looks incredible.”
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“Fine.” He glances over his shoulder at Shay, then back at me. “The place does look incredible. And you look like you’re about to fire your own bouncer for smiling too much.”
I don’t have a response for that.
“Go bother Rhys,” I tell him.
“I am bothering Rhys. He likes it.” Rhys gives him an easy squeeze, and Jude lights up like somebody plugged him in. Normally, I’d smile. Tonight, it just makes something in my chest feel tight and useless.
Everywhere I look, there’s proof that this worked. The new sign glows green against the brick, the old Byrne’s logo cleaned up, looking like it’s always been this way. That was Shay. The place is full without feeling like a frat party—students, townies, a few older couples from down the block. All of them ordering from the promo menu he designed.
People are congratulating me. Congratulating us.
“That’s your guy, right?” a regular named Matt asks as I slide him a pint. He nods toward Shay. “Marketing kid.”
“Consultant,” I say, the word tasting like a lie.
Matt takes a sip. “Whatever he is, he knows his shit. This place has been good for years, but it looks fresh. My wife saw the post online and made me bring her.”
His wife, Diane, raises her glass to me from a few stools down. “The new mocktail’s good.”
“Shay’s idea,” I say. The words are true, and they still feel like they’re being dragged out of me. “He’s brilliant.”
Matt looks from me to Shay. Then he smiles in that knowing way—the one every person gets when they catch an alpha staring at his mate.
“Yeah,” he says. “Looks like you know.”
I don’t answer. I turn and grab another glass because my hands need something to do.
Tessa appears at my shoulder, her dark hair in a knot, black vest still crisp even though we’ve been slammed since we opened. She picks up the stack of clean menus I’ve put down crooked and straightens them with a sharp tap.
“You’re doing the thing,” she says.
“What thing?”
