I don't dignify that with a response.
The dinner crowd starts filtering in. Regulars taking their usual spots, ordering their usual drinks. I slip into the familiar rhythm—pour, serve, listen, nod. Everything normal.
The only thing that's not normal is I can't stop thinking about Tate's face when she came, the sound she made, the way her hands pulled my hair hard enough to hurt.
I'm wiping down the bar for the third time in ten minutes when the door opens.
Tate walks into Sullivan's for the first time ever, and I have to blink just to make sure she's real and not a figment of my imagination.
She pauses just inside the door, looks around. Taking in the dark wood, the posters on the walls, the jukebox in the corner. Her eyes scan the whole space until her gaze lands on me.
The moment she does, the air changes.
She looks nervous. Good. She should be nervous walking into my space after what happened this morning.
I don't move or say anything. Just watch her walk across my bar and take a seat at the far end, closest to the window.
Away from everyone else.
Grabbing a clean glass and walking over, I stop in front of her and wait.
"Beer," she says. "Sam Adams."
I get it without comment. Twist off the cap, set it down in front of her, and slide a coaster underneath. Our fingers don't touch, but damn if I do not want to.
Tate tips the bottle back and swallows slowly. I watch her throat work because I apparently don't have anywhere else to be and don't have a million other things to do. She sets the bottle down and stares at the label.
Why? She chooses to stare absently at a label when she could be staring at me.
Neither of us appears willing to acknowledge this morning, and while I don't want to bring it up first, it still stings that she's ignoring it.
Jason watches from the other end of the bar with a barely concealed smile. I shoot him a look that promises violence if hesays one word, and he mimes zipping his lips before he takes out his phone.
Sarah's about to get a play-by-play.
I turn back to serve another customer, and when I look back, there's a guy next to Tate. I've seen him a couple of times, with a different woman each time.
My vision zeroes in on this guy leaning on my bar. He’s saying something to Tate. He’s smiling at her like he has any right to be there.
The bottle in my hand becomes a fist around glass.
A muscle ticks in my jaw.
Tate smiles up at him, and it burns under my skin. Heat moves through me like a current. I become increasingly aware of a pulse in my temples, a dull thud behind my eyes, the back of my neck —places I didn't know could feel a heartbeat.
He reaches to touch her shoulder, and fuck no. I slam the bottle down. Jason motions to me with a palm facing down. Then both palms. He watches my indecision, mouthing something. Do I intervene or stay calm? Let Tate handle this. Hang back and see where this is headed. Hell no. I'm moving before my brain processes, and come up beside them so fast that the guy startles.
"She's not interested," I say.
He turns to me, stares directly into my chest, then slowly raises his eyes to mine. Like, yeah, I'm 6'5" and currently radiating violence. He reads my face and goes defensive. He's smart enough to recognize danger when it's standing in front of him. Glaring.
"I was just?—"
"Leave."
"Dude, I was just talking?—"
"Now."