Page 8 of When the Storm Breaks
I blink. “Um… yeah.”
When he finally looks at me, something shifts. It hits everywhere at once—like my body knows him in a way my mind can’t explain.
“He only makes them for girls he’s trying to impress,” he says. “Pretty, quiet girls.”
I straighten in my seat. “Excuse me?”
But his hands don’t slow. He grabs the same bottle of gin Chase used earlier, already pouring before I even realize he’s making something new.
“I said you’re pretty.”
The words come out like they mean nothing. Like it’s just a fact to be observed, catalogued, filed away.
I stare at him, stunned into silence.
“This is usually the part where people say thank you.”
I should say something. Tell him off. But all I can do is watch hishands. He moves like Chase does behind the bar, but there’s no show in it. Just purpose.
He turns to the back shelf, grabbing a bottle I don’t recognize, and returns without missing a step. “But don’t get your hopes up,” he says, pouring again. “There’s only one girl he’s interested in.”
He glances across the bar, then slides the glass toward me.
“What is it?”
He leans in, just enough to make the space between us feel intimate.
“Mine,” he whispers.
My breath catches.
He straightens up, turning away without another word, and disappears down the hallway just as Chase returns, wiping his hands on a bar towel.
My fingers curl around the glass, lifting it to my lips. One sip. It’s sharper than Chase’s. Less sweet. Bolder.
It tastes like temptation.
By now, most of my coworkers have either left or settled into the plush seating tucked into the far-right side of the bar, focused on their own conversations. The energy in the room has shifted—calmer now, less overwhelming.
I shift uncomfortably on the tall barstool, my legs tingling from dangling too long. I’ve made my appearance, had my drinks, and if I stay any longer, I won’t be able to drive.
It’s time to go.
Chase moves easily between customers to my right, a blur of motion and charming smiles.
But it’s not him I’m thinking about—it’s the other one. The manwho made me that drink.
Who left behind a heat I can still feel in my chest, in my throat, in the space between my thighs.
Who claimed it, claimed me, with one whispered word:Mine.
I scan the hallway he disappeared down, but there’s no sign of him.
I clear my throat, trying to force myself back into the present, and the sound snaps Chase’s focus to me.
“Damn girl, another one?” he teases, nodding to my half-empty glass.
I shake my head quickly. “No, no. Driving,” I say, reaching for my wallet.
