Page 3 of Going All In

I manage to hold it together while Addison chatters away, her excited questions for Dad and Judy monopolizing the conversation. Once we place our orders, I excuse myself, beelining for the bathroom. I lock myself in a stall and lean against the wall, focusing on my breathing like I teach my foster kids to do when they’re feeling overwhelmed.

In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

But when I close my eyes, I just find myself reliving that night with Maddox.

“Can I get you a drink?” The deep voice resonates in my ear.

I turn back to the bar, ready to tell the bartender exactly what I think of his service so far, but he’s still at the other end of the counter where he’s spent the last twenty minutes.

There’s a man leaned up against the bar next to me, his eyebrows raised like he’s looking for an answer.

And he’s a man. Not a man-child, like these post-college kids.

Dark brown hair. Eyes that are so dark they’re almost black. They’re hypnotic. A well-maintained beard over his defined chin that indicates an adequate amount of testosterone and an appropriate amount of attention to self-grooming.

The man smiles at me, the lines at the corners of his eyes creasing. Swoon. It’s one of the things I look for in guys, and fuck, this guy has them in spades. It’s something most college guys don’t have, with their limited life experience and overzealous sunscreen use. It’s a marker of maturity and that someone has spent a lot of time smiling in a genuine way.

“What would you like?” He’s still smiling— eye lines and all— and ignoring the fact that I’ve been staring at him silently.

I blink and try to recover before he realizes I might be a lost cause. “Oh. Um. I’ll take a vodka cranberry, but I think it’ll be a while. The bartender hasn’t come down here in forever.”

He offers me a nod. Then, I swear to God, with one flick of his wrist, the bartender is headed our way, his attention firmly on this guy. While his attention is on the bartender, I take the opportunity to run my gaze over the rest of his body. Dark-wash jeans fit him perfectly, hugging a waist that looks solid. A long-sleeve grey Henley wraps over wide shoulders.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks, offering us a pleasant smile like he hasn’t just avoided this side of the room for twenty minutes.

To be fair, he’s asking the mystery guy, not me.

“I’ll take whatever IPA is on tap. And a vodka cranberry for…” My new companion trails off, looking at me.

Oh. Now they’re both looking at me.

I try to remember my own name. Jesus, a hot guy looks at me, and my brain misfires. “Holly. Thank you.”

The bartender flashes a grin. “Like, happy holly-days?”

I offer him the same fake smile that I give anyone who brings up the holidays. “Kinda.”

The bartender gives me a brief nod, correctly sensing that I’m not in the mood to talk about the origins of my name, and moves away to grab our drinks.

Mystery Guy turns his attention fully to me. “Nice to meet you. Holly is a pretty name. Seems perfect for the holidays, huh?”

“I guess.” I’d like to get away from the topic of the holidays and Christmas.

Because if you must know, then yes, I’m a Christmas time baby. My birthday is on December 26th.

My mom used to say that Santa was just a bit late with his gift that year. Christmas used to be a big deal for us. My mom would go all out with decorations, leave notes from Santa and the Elf on the Shelf, sprinkle glitter and leave reindeer paw prints in the snow on Christmas morning.

When she died, it was like the magic died with her.

Before I can alienate this guy further—or ask him his name—he turns away from me to pick up the glass of beer that the bartender sets in front of him, his shirt stretching tight against his muscles as he reaches. He slides the reddish cocktail my way before he sets a bill on the bar and slides it across, ignoring the beer residue.

I bring the drink to my lips and take a sip, keeping my eyes on him.

The drink is the perfect amount of tart and sweet, and I can actually taste the vodka in this one, which means it’s stronger than the weak-ass first one I got my hands on. This mystery guy really does have special powers over bartenders; he can command attention and strong drinks. Amazing.

“I’m Maddox.” Mystery Guy holds a hand out to me.

I do my breathing exercises again and leave the stall, checking my makeup in the mirror as I wash my hands. Obviously, dating Maddox now is out of the question. My family would never let approve of the whole stepbrother thing. And afterThe Incident, I’m not giving them any more reason to judge me.

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