When the final whistle blows, the Bobcats win 28–14. I’m out of my seat before the sound fades. Since my leg has healed and I didn’t have to drive Peyton, I came on the Ducati. So, while everyone else gets stuck in the post-game traffic nightmare, I weave through the line of cars and hit the open road. The bike purrs beneath me, responsive and eager, eating up the asphalt between me and the Moonshine.
The dive bar’s parking lot is already half full when I roll in. I kill the engine and pull off my helmet, letting the crisp night air cool my skin.
Inside, neon beer signs buzz on the wood-paneled walls. A cluster of guys is playing pool at the table in the corner. And the TV screens mounted overhead show the highlights of theBobcats game, but they’ve been muted to make way for a live country band.
The lighting is dim enough to blur edges, to hide the wear and tear that marks every surface. The space pulses in the semi-dark: crowded, chaotic, alive.
I scan the room and find Peyton at the bar, flanked by Lila and Emma. They’re doing shots, slamming the glasses down on the counter, and laughing like dressed-up maniacs.
My breath catches.
Lila wasn’t exaggerating about the costume.
Peyton is wearing tight black pants that hug every curve I’ve been trying not to lose my mind over. A long-sleeved black shirt clings to her torso. She has black whiskers drawn on her cheeks, and cat ears perch on top of her head, nestled in the dark chaos of her curls.
Her hair is loose. Down over her shoulders. Tumbling in waves I want to tangle my fingers in.
Next to her, Emma is shimmying in a red dress, red lipstick, and a plastic headband with devil horns.
Lila went full horror movie instead. She’s wearing a white, ruffled nightgown with long, billowing sleeves. Her skin is painted deathly pale with dark circles smudged beneath her eyes. She makes a good impersonation of a Victorian ghost.
I start toward them when Remy Evans steps in front of the trio, his trademark grin already in place. He is the biggest flirt in Blue Crescent Harbor. But the man doesn’t just talk a good game—he follows through. I’ve lost count of how many women he’s charmed out of their clothes.
He stops in front of Peyton and says something that makes her laugh.
A jolt of irrational heat surges through my chest. A spike of possessiveness so sharp it startles me.
This is stupid. I know it’s stupid. Peyton would never go home with Remy Evans. She’s not the type to be swayed by a charming smile and a few clever lines. And even if she were, even if our marriage is fake—fake-ish—she wouldn’t let others think she’d make a fool of me.
And she’s not my property. I don’t own her.
But knowing all of that doesn’t stop the territorial instinct from clawing its way up my spine.
Remy leans closer to Peyton. His hand lands on the bar beside hers, casual but oh-so-intentional.
I watch her face for a reaction. She’s still smiling, but it’s polite. Social. Not the messy, unrestrained grin that bunches her cheeks and makes small lines appear at the top of her nose.
That smile is mine.
The thought takes root before I can rip it out.
It’s idiotic and immature, this urge building in my gut. The caveman impulse to march over there and mark my territory. To remind everyone in this bar that the woman in the cat ears is my wife, that she falls asleep in my arms every night.
But I’m about to do it, anyway.
32
PEYTON
Tequila burns a bright trail down my throat, chasing the warmth already pooling in my stomach from the first two shots. I slam the empty glass on the bar next to Emma’s and Lila’s, and the three of us erupt into laughter. It bubbles up from nowhere and everywhere, fueled by lime and salt and by being somewhere loud and anonymous with people who don’t expect me to be anyone but myself.
Emma signals for the barman—Dale, Lila called him earlier—to pour another round. He lines up three fresh glasses and fills them in a row, not concerned with the liquor that sloshes over the counter.
My best friend distributes the shots, her devil horns slightly askew, her red lipstick still somehow perfect.
She lifts her glass. “A toast!”
“To what?” I ask.