Page 68 of When the Storm Breaks
“And watch your damn tables!”
The second I slam the office door shut, I scrub at my shirt hard enough to tear the fabric. It doesn’t make a difference. The stickiness lingers. The frustration lingers.
Tonight is a fucking train wreck. I’d planned to leave early once the crowd thinned out, but with Tanner screwing up left and right, I don’t trust him. I can’t leave him alone. So I’m staying until close.
I shouldn’t have yelled at him. I know that.
But fuck. I can’t let things fall apart.
Just a few more hours. Then I can go home. Find silence. Lie awake for hours staring at my ceiling. At least then, I won’t have to deal with this shit.
I toss the rag, now soaked through, into the trash. I’m not washing it. I don’t want any reminders of how this night is going.
Shoving the office door open, I stride down the hallway, my pulse hammering with irritation. Sticky jeans. Sticky shirt. Useless bartender. Packed bar.
And then I see her.
Copper waves spill down her back, catching the dim lights. Her hair shifts as she moves, her head tilting toward whoever she’s talking to. I don’t need to see her face.
It’s her.
And then I see who she’s talking to.
Fucking Tanner.
I barely register the way Tanner shifts as I walk up behind the bar. He takes one look at me and immediately steps aside, practically tripping over himself to get out of my path.
Smart.
I make a mental note to apologize later, but any plan to smooth things over disappears the second Calla’s eyes meet mine.
She relaxes just slightly, her features softening like she’s relieved to see me.
And for the first time tonight, the harsh noise of the bar fades into something distant.
“Hi, Haiyden.”
I feel it settle deep—that strange, inevitable pull between us.
A real, unguarded smile tugs at my mouth. It catches me off guard, but I hold onto it.
“How does wine sound?” I ask, skipping the formalities.
“Wine sounds great,” she says, a small, shy smile pulling at her lips.
It’s not much, but it sparks something in me anyway. She looks… lighter tonight. Like some of the weight she’s been carrying has finally eased.
I grab a glass and reach behind the lineup of liquor bottles tucked along the shelf, pulling out the wine I stashed earlier.
The same red she brought on Christmas.
I uncork the bottle and pour slowly, letting it run deep into the glass. And when I recork it, tucking it away, it’s not because I’m ashamed.
It’s because it’s hers.
And I don’t trust Tanner not to pour it for some drunk asshole who won’t appreciate it.
I turn and slide the glass across the bar, my fingers holding the stem for just a moment too long.
