Page 15 of Promise

“Whatcha doin’ back here?” Hutch asks with genuine interest, before bringing a beer to his lips.

“Does Trin know you’re back?” Tate interjects before I can provide an answer, glaring at me while lifting his bottle and taking a sip. He continues to evil-eye me over the end of the tipped-up bottle.

“Saw that accident, man,” Marshall says next, shifting topics.

I glance at him first. “Yeah, I got lucky.”

But had I? My wife had a baby without me. And any hopes of a racing career are now on hold.

“Luck is like licorice; it eventually runs out,” Hutch states, arching his brow.

Not certain what licorice has to do with anything, but I understand his meaning. Luck is sweet but transient. It never lasts.

“This candy shop is empty then,” I confess as a waitress approaches the table.

“Need anything, honey?” Her voice is sweet, the question innocent, but the tension at the table jacks up a level.

“I just got us a round of beers at the bar, Prudy. Where were you five minutes ago?”

The blonde narrows her eyes at Tate. “I don’t work for you, Tate Haven. Not here.”

“Uhm, you kind of do. You’re a waitress.” He snarks back at her, a flare in his eyes. A bull about to charge, only I’m sensing the rush is to get in this woman’s pants.

Tate is a total himbo, and there probably isn’t anyone left in this town he hasn’t slept with.

Except, apparently, this woman.

She ignores him and turns toward me. “What would you like?”

“I’ll just have a beer.” I tip my chin toward the one Petty holds up. A local brew.

She nods, gives Tate another stink eye, and walks away.

“Woo-wee,” Petty chuckles. “I don’t know whether to drink this beer or bathe in it. That was one dirty look.”

Petty has always been a jokester, and goading Tate is easy.

“Fuck you, pretty boy,” Tate mutters, taking another sip of his beer, But I don’t miss how his eyes shift back toward the blonde waitress. “She’s a pain in the ass.”

“You wish she was a pain in your ass,” Marshall teases, leaning back in his seat.

“Or wants you up her⁠—”

“Stop right there, rock star.” Tate slams his beer bottle on the table and narrows his eyes at Petty, who breaks into a peal of laughter.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Marshall adds, smirking, while Hutch just casually sits back listening to these guys.

For a hot minute, it feels like I never left Rogue River. Other than the tension coming off Tate toward me. And the fact that Trinity had a baby.

Fuck.

The waitress returns and sets my beer down, giving me a friendly smile before turning her back on the table, ignoring the darts in Tate’s eyes focused on her ass.

“She new around here?” The question is nothing more than making conversation.

Those darts aim at me next. “She’s fucking off limits.”

“Superstar race man here doesn’t need your girl,” Petty teases, squeezing my shoulder and jostling me.