Page 7 of When the Storm Breaks
Despite the tears still threatening to spill, I can’t help but smile. I take a deep breath and slide onto a seat near the center of the bar.
“Milady,” he says with a smirk, dipping his head theatrically. “What can I get for you?”
“Gin and tonic, please.”
His eyes narrow, like he’s thinking something over. “I can do you one better.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs, already reaching for a bottle on the back shelf. “Do you trust me?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t even know you.”
“I’m Chase,” he says, extending a hand. “Now you do. And if you like gin, you’ll like this.”
He’s already moving before I can protest. I watch as his handswork with practiced ease, every motion fluid as he pulls bottles and mixers. I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to the muscles in his forearms, flexing subtly with each shake, pour, and stir.
A minute later, he slides the glass toward me with a dramatic bow. His grin is warm, boyish—and completely contagious.
“Lavender lemon gin fizz,” he announces proudly.
I take a small, tentative sip. A bright, floral flavor washes over my tongue, and a quiet moan escapes before I can stop it.
“Oh my God.”
“Not bad, huh?” He winks, already stepping away. “Flag me down if you need anything else!”
Another hour slips by as I sit at the bar, quietly observing. Chase—friendly, charismatic, undeniably talented Chase—has made me another of his signature drinks. The gin warms me, and the scent of aged wood and citrus settles over me like a blanket.
There’s a comfort here now that wasn’t there when I walked in.
I didn’t come here to have fun. But sitting at this bar, watching Chase’s ridiculous antics and letting the drinks melt the tension in my shoulders… I start to wonder what it might be like to feel normal again.
To let myself laugh without guilt.
To pretend, even just for tonight, that I’m not still drowning.
Chase suddenly glances up from the register, catching my eye.
“Hold down the fort for me?” he grins, already heading toward the back hallway.
I nod, though I’m not entirely sure the question was even meant for me.
A moment passes.
Then another.
I’m already halfway to spiraling, convinced someone’s about to ask me for a drink I can’t make—like I’ve somehow been left in charge—when someone new steps behind the bar.
He moves quietly, and I almost don’t notice him at first. Not until the air shifts, like the whole room bends around his presence.
It’s him. The man from earlier.
He grabs a glass without looking, every motion fluid, like he’s done this a hundred times.
“Let me guess,” he says, eyes still elsewhere. “Lavender lemon gin fizz?”
His voice is low and unbothered—a little dry, a little amused. It rolls over me like thunder through an open field.
