Page 97 of Pin My Alpha
“You seem to be good at that part.”
“Jesus, Ruth.”
“Oh, don’t ‘Jesus, Ruth’ me.” She picks up her whiskey. “You run this place like it’s a ship going down in a storm, and you’re determined to be the only one holding the wheel. You remember everyone’s birthday. You cover shifts. You loan out money and pretend it’s an advance. You feed half the campus when they’re broke.”
“That’s called running a business.”
“That’s called caring. You just only know how to do it when there’s a cash register involved.” The words sit there between us. “You built a fine place here,” she says. “A real fortress.”
I glance around the bar. The booths. The long counter. Every bit of it paid for twice over—once with money, and once with the years I spent telling myself I didn’t need anything outside thesewalls. Byrne’s wasn’t a fortress. It was proof I could do it right. Somewhere along the way, proof became all I had.
Ruth taps a finger against her glass. “But a fortress is just a prison if you’re the only one living in it.”
The bar noise fades. I see Shay upstairs, standing in my oversized Henley, his curls a mess. I see him at this bar with a binder tucked under his arm, pretending he was just rescuing my business.
I see his face when I offered him the key. The bank account.
You don’t have to worry about money, or work.
Like work was a burden I could lift. Like he hadn’t just saved the place I’d spent a decade protecting. Like I was giving him a life instead of asking him to build one with me.
I didn’t offer him a home. I offered him a cage.
My stomach turns over.
Ruth goes on, her voice gentler now, which is somehow worse. “Taking care of someone is a lovely thing. My late husband used to warm my side of the bed with a hot water bottle because my feet get cold. That’s taking care. But asking a capable young man to give up every piece of himself so you can feel safe? That’s not taking care of him. That’s just taking.”
“I wasn’t asking him to give anything up.”
“You told him he didn’t need to work.”
“I wanted him to know he was safe.”
“And what he heard,” she says, her gaze sharp and certain, “was that you didn’t trust him to be.”
I shut my eyes. There it is. Clean and brutal.
Tessa comes over with a basket of fries and sets them in front of me. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re eating anyway.”
Ruth takes one. “Good staff.”
“Best staff,” I say, my voice thick.
“Then act like you know it.” She points a fry at my chest. “You don’t run this place alone, Declan. You never have. So why did you forget that when it came to the person you love?”
The word hits hard enough that I have to look away. Love. I’ve said it. Buried inside him, where he couldn’t do anything but take it. Again while he was packing a bag, like the words were a hand grabbing his sleeve. I’ve never once said it slow, in daylight, where he could turn it over and decide for himself what to do with it.
Ruth’s expression softens. “You do love him, don’t you?”
I manage a single nod. “Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “I do.”
Tessa’s eyes get shiny for a second before she turns away and starts aggressively wiping down bottles.
Ruth pats my hand. Her fingers are small and dry. “Then quit sitting here looking like a man waiting for a pardon. Figure out what you’re actually offering him.”
