Page 31 of Gap Control

I hesitated at the bar. The noise buzzed inside my head, and the thought of slipping out early was starting to sound better than a beer.

Then TJ showed up beside me.

He didn't speak right away—only leaned in, chin almost on my shoulder, easy and familiar. He whispered in my ear, "The booth's weirdly lopsided without you. You coming?"

I followed him back, telling myself it was easier to play along than make a scene.

He dropped into the booth and tugged me in, close enough that our knees bumped. Someone pushed a beer across the table. A server appeared with a second. She nodded toward the bar.

"Guy in the Bruins hat sent that over. Said your line crushed it in the third."

TJ lit up. "Wow, scouting report energy. Love that. Tell him thank you from us."

The server smiled and moved on.

Brady held up his phone. "Quick shot for the Forge page?"

Before I could answer, TJ leaned into me. One arm draped around my shoulders, pulling me close enough for our cheeks to brush.

I didn't move and kept my expression on the cheerful side.

Brady snapped the photo. "Perfect. Looks real."

TJ let his arm fall away and picked up his beer. "Probably because we're naturals."

I didn't answer. Across the table, Mercier was arguing about his saved shots. A basket of fries landed nearby, already half-empty.

TJ turned back to me. "You doing okay?"

"Why?"

"You're quiet."

"I'm always quiet."

"Sure. But sometimes your quiet means thinking about homicide. Just checking."

I looked away and sipped my beer.

TJ started chatting with the server again, asking her name and repeating it. Not fake charm. It was him. Warm, present. A little too good at making people feel seen.

That included me. And it bothered me how much I liked it.

I must've been staring, because he caught me. Cracked one of those lopsided half-smiles. "Careful. You keep looking at me like that, and people are gonna think this is real."

"Maybe I'm looking at you because you're loud."

TJ laughed, head tipping back briefly, and leaned in again. Barely touching.

I realized I didn't want him to move, and none of this was part of the plan.

The bar got louder as the night wore on. Not just volume—energy, too. All the tables were full. The locals were generous. They appeared to like us as much as their home team.

Someone turned the game recap up on the TV overhead. Monroe explained a pool shot using French fries. TJ had kicked off his shoes and pushed against me, still riding the post-win buzz.

He had a beer in one hand, and with the other, he was making a dramatic commentary about Lambert's jukebox choices.

"Who requests two Bon Jovi tracks in a row?" he asked no one in particular. "That's a cry for help."

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