"That's what I said."
"I've been running Sullivan's for five years."
"I know. I looked you up. Three-star average on Google, which is actually pretty good for the area, so congratulations on that."
Three stars. The one-star review that dragged my average down was from a woman named Mimi, who was angry about the absence of gluten-free options and a live jazz singer.
"You think you can just, what, open a bar across from mine?"
"I mean, I signed a lease, so yeah. That's generally how it works." The smile doesn't fall off her face, but her gaze is the total opposite of warm. "Competition is healthy, right? Keeps everyone sharp."
I laugh. Short, sharp, no humor in it. She smiles at the sound, and something about her smiling at my frustration makes me want to be more frustrated, which makes me more frustrated, a loop I'm stuck in while she stands there looking completely unaffected. "You'll be closed in six months."
"Maybe."
She shoves both hands in her back pockets, and the shirt pulls taut across her chest, nipples dotting the fabric. I register before I can help it. Too soon. I really need to get out of here. Too late.Blood rushes south, and I shake my head, trying to retain my wits. And my dignity.
“Then you win either way, right? Either I succeed, and we both do fine, or I fail, and you get to be right. Seems like a good deal for you."
"You know that's—" I stop. She's right, and we both know it, and I cannot finish the sentence because there's nowhere for it to go that doesn't prove her point. Of course, the nuclear third possibility is that she takes all my fucking customers andIfail.
"Look," she says, and her voice softens slightly, not condescending but something else I can't identify. "You came over here. You could've just waved, could've been friendly, could've introduced yourself like a normal neighbor. But you skipped all that and went straight to almost pouncing on me, so I'm not sure what you expected."
That lands. Right in the center of my chest, where the uncomfortable thing has been sitting since her smile dropped.
I've moved into her space during this conversation. Territorial, instinctive. She hasn't backed up, though. We're standing close enough now that I can see the gold in her blue eyes clearly, can smell paint and sweat.
The wanting is still there, worse now, because she's close enough that acting on it would take almost no effort at all.
My hands clench into fists. I'm furious. I'm also aware of every inch of distance between us, the way her breathing has picked up slightly, the way mine has too. My body doesn't care that I'm in an argument. My jeans are tight again, and I'm having the worst afternoon of my month.
Tate looks at me for a long moment. Then she smiles again. "If I ever need tips on running a mediocre bar, I'll know where to find you."
Mediocre. Everything I put into those five years, every early morning and late night, every decision and sacrifice and moment of doubt I pushed through.
I spin on my heel and leave before I say something I can't walk back from.
My head aches. My hands ache. Something else aches for reasons I'm not touching. I can feel her watching, but I don't look back. Will not look back. Giving her that is not something I'm willing to do.
Jason is exactly where I left him, not even pretending to work, wearing the expression of a man who had front-row tickets to this exact show.
I pour whiskey before he can speak and drink half of it standing up.
"She's opening a dive bar," I say.
Jason goes still. Then he exhales and nods once. He knows better than to say something amusing because I really am not in the fucking mood anymore.
Tate's competition. She's a threat to everything I've built.
She's a nightmare come to life in cutoff shorts and a braless tank top.
And judging by that last smile, she already knows.
2
TATE
In my defense, Tom started it. He didn't introduce himself, by the way. I learned his name from Jason.