Page 7 of Handful

“Then go back,” Holden said. “Show her you’re not the asshole she thinks you are.”

“How?”

Holden fixed me with that steady stare of his — the one that had made him such a good road captain, the one that said I see through your bullshit. “Have you tried treating her like a person instead of a conquest?”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he cut me off. “You’ve always done it. Women are either targets or obstacles to you. They’re never just people. This one sounds like she sees through that. So either prove her wrong, or admit she’s right and move on.”

The thing was, I couldn’t argue with it. I opened my mouth to, and nothing came out. Women are either targets or obstacles. I’d never heard it framed that way, but I ran through the last ten years in about three seconds and couldn’t find a single exception.

It was an uncomfortable thing to know about yourself.

I stared at him. Holden had always been the quiet one — the thoughtful one — but since he’d gotten together with Bea, he’d become annoyingly insightful. Therapist girlfriend rubbing off on him, no doubt. “When did you get so wise?” I asked.

“When I almost lost everything.” He held my gaze. “Don’t wait until then to figure your shit out.”

❧

That night, I went back to The Velvet Hour. Alone this time. No brother to distract me, no excuse to hide behind. Just me and whatever the hell I was trying to prove.

The place was quieter on a Monday. I spotted Austen behind the bar immediately, her copper hair catching the light as she worked the shaker with practiced efficiency. She looked up as I approached, and her expression shifted from professional welcome to cool assessment.

“You came back.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.” She finished the drink and slid it to a waiting customer before turning to face me fully. “Most men who get kicked out don’t come back.”

“I’m not most men.”

“No. You’re something else.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Her insults were like oxygen to me. What the fuck was wrong with me? “Can I sit?”

She studied me for a long moment. “Bar only. And if you make a single comment about any of my staff—”

“I won’t.”

“—I’ll have security drag you out by your ears,” she finished, totally ignoring the fact that I’d interrupted her.

“Understood.”

I slid onto a stool and waited while she finished with another customer. When she turned back to me, her expression was still guarded, but there was curiosity there too. Buried deep, but present.

“What can I get you?”

“Old Fashioned. Same as last time.”

“My Old Fashioned made that much of an impression?”

“I remember everything about last time.”

Her brow pulled in slightly. I didn’t know what I’d said wrong. “I can’t tell if you’re going for romantic or creepy.”

“Let me know when you figure it out.”

She made the drink without speaking, her movements smooth and precise. I watched her hands and tried not to think about how they’d feel on my skin.