Page 44 of His To Erase
“You good?” she asks after a beat, her voice dipping into something gentler.
I pause, long enough to think, then shrug. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can feel it in the way she lingers for a second too long before grabbing another glass. But she lets it go.
That’s the thing about Sarah. She knows when to push and when to wait until I’m ready to fall apart on my own schedule.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t check it right away. I just stare at the glass in my hand and wonder which idiot I pissed off this time.
And then I feel it.
The air shifts.
Not dramatically—just enough to send a ripple through the room. A change in the rhythm. Every instinct I’ve got sits up and takes notice.
I don’t even have to look. My body knows before my brain catches up.
Tattooed Man.
He doesn’t come to the bar, he doesn’t even look at me, or say a damn word. He just heads straight for a table in the back.
The darkest corner. His corner.
I grit my teeth and keep drying the same glass I’ve already wiped twice. I shouldn’t care. One library hookup doesn’t make us Facebook official.
It was one time.
One very specific, toe-curling, ladder-climbing time. But still.
If he wants to ghost me after that, that’s fine. Perfect, even. Explains why I haven’t seen him since.
No big deal.
“Uh… Ani?”
Sarah’s voice cuts through my mental murder list as she slides up next to me, pretending to organize straws. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating that tall, tattooed Sex God who just walked in.”
I don’t answer. Mostly because I’m still glaring daggers at his stupid, unfairly beautiful face.
Sarah follows my line of sight. “Ohhhh,” she says slowly, lips curling into a grin. “So that’s your problem.”
“He’s not my anything.”
“Mmhmm. You’re drying that glass like it owes you child support.”
I slam it down a little too hard on the towel.
“It does.”
Before she can press, a blonde saunters into the scene like she’s walking in slow motion. She’s got legs for days, and tits that defy gravity and the limits of spandex. She slides into the seat across from him with the kind of confidence that says she already knows what flavor his dick is.
She smiles, and that’s when the burn hits my chest.
That irrational, blood-boiling kind of anger that makes you want to break something. Or someone. My fingers start to curl around the edge of the counter.
Sarah whistles low. “Damn. You okay, or do I need to start prepping bail money?”
“Fine,” I snap.
