Page 42 of Handful

He wasn’t kissing her. He wasn’t leaning in. He was just dancing — on autopilot, the music doing the work, the beer doing the rest. Not pursuing. Just there, the way he’d always been there, in this room, with whatever woman was closest.

I stood at the bar with my water and watched.

Across the room, Holden was leaning against the wall near the kitchen door. He wasn’t watching the dance floor. He was watching me. Not obviously — glass in hand, half-turned toward Bea — but his eyes were on my face.

Our eyes met. A second, maybe. Not a word, not a judgment. Just I see it too.

Then he looked away. Back to Bea. Back to his own orbit.

I didn’t make a production of it. I found Indira, told her I had an early morning — a lie, but a gentle one — and hugged her. Thanked her for the party. Told her to tell Dutch happy birthday again. She looked at me with the careful attention of a woman who could hear the lie but wasn’t going to call it.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Okay.” She squeezed my arm. “Call me if you need to.”

I found my jacket. I walked through the crowd — past the pool tables where Target was running a game, past the bar where Betty was on her second glass of wine and still serene, past the porch where the smokers were gathered — and I went out the front door into the lot.

The air was cool. The bikes were lined up under the lot lights, chrome catching the glow. I stood there for a moment, breathing.

Tyler was inside. I could see him at the bar with Colt, laughing about something, beer in hand. He hadn’t seen me leave. Didn’t even know I was gone.

I wondered how long it would take him to notice I’d left.

I wasn’t angry. That was the strange part. I’d expected to be angry — the righteous, clear-eyed anger I’d felt the night I’d kicked him out of Velvet. But this was different. This was quieter, and worse. Because the man I’d fallen for wasn’t the one I’d watched tonight. Tyler was real — the one who asked before he kissed me, who paid attention, who showed up. I’d seen him. I’d fucked him in his “virgin” bed. I’d ridden on the back of his bike.

But Handful was real too. The one whose hands moved without thinking. Whose eyes tracked before the brain caught up. Years of muscle memory in a room exactly like this one.

Both men were Tyler. That was the part I didn’t know what to do with.

I’d been so deliberate about this. Months of watching, measuring, staying behind the line. I hadn’t fallen for him — I’d walked in. Eyes open. One day at a time.

The problem with walking in deliberately was that you couldn’t pretend you hadn’t meant to.

Derek had called it months ago, watching Handful read at the end of the bar. Three modes, he’d said. Charm, apology, charm again. He’s on mode two. Mode three’s coming. I’d told him he was a pessimist. Heard him anyway. Decided I was different — that seeing someone clearly meant you were in control of it.

Emma had warned me about Handful from the start. So had Jamie. I’d heard them. I’d decided anyway.

The counter-evidence was the thing I kept coming back to. A man running charm doesn’t sit in your bar with a paperback for two months without making a move. Doesn’t spend more than your rent on riding gear because he won’t put you on his bike in anything less. Doesn’t introduce you to his family.

A prospect stood by the side door, keys already in his hand, watching the lot the way I knew they did on party nights. I caught his eye and tipped my head toward the road. He pushed off the wall without a word, walked me to his truck, held the door. Neither of us said anything the whole way out, and I watched the clubhouse lights shrink in the side mirror until the dark took them.

Chapter 11

❧

— Handful —

Iwas at the bar with Colt around eleven. Fourth beer. I went to take a piss sometime after that. Ten minutes later, fifteen. I wasn’t tracking.

The corridor between the common room and the bathrooms was quiet. Target was leaning against the wall near the bathroom, scrolling his phone. He looked up.

I went past him. Came back out. He was still there, phone down, watching a hangaround come through the common room door — dark hair, short skirt, killer heels.

She passed us. Target watched her go. I watched her go.

“Legs for days on that one,” I said.