Page 3 of Keep

Their eyes met across the bar.

The man smiled—slow, uncertain, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Chad’s pulse did something it had no business doing.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

He looked away, busying himself with the beer cooler.

You’re on a dating hiatus, remember? No men. No distractions. No more falling for the wrong guy.

But when he glanced up again, the man was still looking at him. Not the appraising look he was used to from customers. Shy. Almost apologetic.

And despite every promise he’d made to himself, Chad smiled back.

The next hour was a war of attrition, which was fine. Chad needed something to do with his hands. Vodka sodas, craft beers, a seemingly endless stream of margaritas. He moved with practiced efficiency, hands a blur of bottles, ice, and shakers, keeping one eye on Blake at the far end. The kid was game but slow—mouthing the steps for a Long Island Iced Tea with the grim focus of a rosary.

At one point, a man in a flowing caftan waved an empty glass. “Can I get another Mai Tai, hon?”

“Be right with you,” Chad called, three beer bottles wedged between the fingers of one hand and two highball glasses cupped in the other.

He set the glasses down for a stocky pocket bear in a plaid shirt tucked into impossibly tight jeans. The man’s eyes were glued to a spot four inches below Chad’s chin.

Here we go.

“That’ll be thirty-five, hon,” Chad said, keeping his voice friendly.

The man passed two twenties, hand brushing Chad’s with unmistakable deliberateness. “Keep the change, doll. You know, if you ever want to see what a real bear looks like⁠—”

“I appreciate the offer,” Chad said, “but I’m more of a cub guy myself.”

Lies. All lies.

The man winked and turned away. Chad pocketed the five-dollar tip and moved on.

Somewhere in the chaos, he caught movement at the end of the bar. The man in the red cap was shifting on his stool, fingers turning his glass in a slow circle, clearly debating whether to stay or bolt for the door.

Don’t leave.

He didn’t know this man. Didn’t know anything about him beyond bourbon-neat, a bad disguise, and a smile that hit somewhere inconvenient.

As if sensing the attention, the man looked up. Their eyes met again.

This time, Chad held up a finger—one minute—and the man nodded, settling back onto his stool. The relief on his face was so naked it made Chad’s chest ache.

You are in so much trouble.

When the rush finally ebbed enough to breathe, Chad made his way down the bar. Up close, the man was even more striking than the distance had promised. Dark brown eyes, warm and a little worried. The beard was close-trimmed, more silver than he’d noticed before, and it couldn’t quite hide the roundness of his cheeks or the suggestion of dimples beneath. He had maybe fifteen years on Chad, maybe more, and he wore them well.

He looked like someone’s dad. Someone’s hot, sweet, slightly overwhelmed dad.

Danger, danger, Will Robinson.

“Hey there,” Chad said, leaning against the bar. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

The man’s face flushed from the collar up. “No. I—no. First time.” He cleared his throat. “Here. First time here. At a—at this sort of…” He gestured vaguely at the room, the gesture somehow encompassing the entirety of homosexuality.

Chad bit back a smile. “A bar?”