“Mostly.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
I walk along the bar, my fingers trailing over the newly polished wood.
“How long are you in town?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
I hesitate, then shrug, trying to make it sound like a throwaway line. “Well… I guess Tar City is home after all.”
He freezes, the bottle he’s wiping halfway to a shelf. “What do you mean?”
“I moved back today.”
“Moved back?”
“Yep.”
I start opening cabinets behind the bar for no reason, needing to do something with my hands. “Dropped my bags. Saw the disappointment in my entire family’s faces. Considered taking a lit match to every pair of pointe shoes I own.” I check the glasses like I know what I’m doing, holding one up to the light. “Then I figured a drink would be less dramatic.”
Jax looks at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious. “What about your career?”
“One day at a time.” I lean forward on the counter. “Please tell me this bar has alcohol.”
He snorts. “Yeah. I think we can manage that.”
I barely open one of the cabinets.
“Hey—”
“What?”
“You can’t just?—”
Something clatters. A bottle tips. Jax lunges forward to grab it, but he’s too late. Liquid splashes across the counter and straight onto my shirt. The cold alcohol soaks through the white fabric instantly.
His gaze flickers down before he catches himself.
I glance down, sigh, and grab a rag from the counter. “Well,” I say, dabbing at the stain, “that went about how my day’s been going.”
Jax rubs his temples. “You’ve been here thirty seconds.”
“And I brought a gift.”
“You’re a disaster.” He gestures toward a stool. “Sit down before you break something else.”
I hop onto the stool with exaggerated obedience. “Yes, daddy.”
Jax reaches for a shaker, already moving with practiced ease behind the bar. A minute later he slides a martini toward me.
I take a sip. Strong. Very strong. “So,” I say, setting the glass down. “How have you been? Excited for the opening tomorrow?”
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Sure.”
“Why are you so cranky?” I ask. “I think you’re nervous.” I lift the pick from my martini and slowly slide one of the olives off with my teeth. “The place looks great, okay? And the drink?” I raise the glass. “Tasty.”
He looks away and I notice the scars. Thin lines along his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt. I point. “What happened there?”
He barely glances up. “This city.”
I study him for another second before pushing the shot glass toward him. “Have a drink with me,” I say.