Page 81 of Pin My Alpha

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I want all of it.

And wanting it turns me into my mother.

So I can’t.

I shoulder past him.

He moves aside immediately.

Of course he does.

The apartment blurs as I walk through it. The couch where he played guitar. The kitchen where he made pasta. The front door, right there, close enough that I can see the chipped paint around the lock.

“Shay,” he says behind me.

I stop with my hand on the knob.

For one second, neither of us breathes.

“Don’t go,” he says.

Raw. No bar-owner calm. No alpha command.

Just Declan.

Whatever this is, we can fix it.

The sentence hangs between us, and it almost gets me. Almost turns me around. Almost makes me drop the bag and crawl right back into the bed that carries the faint, familiar proof of the two of us together.

But I see the green towel inside my duffel. I see my mother’s face. I hear that panicked voice on the phone.

My hand twists the knob.

“I can’t be here tonight,” I whisper.

Then I walk out the door and leave him standing alone in the middle of everything we saved.

Declan

The glass squeaks against the bar towel, a sound that sets my teeth on edge.

I keep wiping anyway.

It’s already clean. There’s nothing on it. I can see the amber bottles reflected behind me, every label lined up, every tap handle straight. Every stupid little thing in Byrne’s is exactly where I left it before the party turned into a success, and then into the worst night of my life.

“Good job, Byrne,” I mutter to myself.

My voice just gets swallowed by the empty room.

The neon sign’s off. The music’s off. Even the refrigerator hum sounds quieter than usual, like the whole building knows to shut the hell up.

I set the glass under the bar and grab another one.

Wipe. Check for lipstick, for chips. Put it away.

Wipe. Check. Put it away.

There’s always something to do in a bar.

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