Slowly, so slowly, he turns to face me. He gently sets the bottle of whiskey on the bar, and I swear he looks right through me, turning my blood ice cold. “No.”

With one single word, the world beneath me seems to collapse. Anger rushes to the forefront, reddening my vision. Tears sear the corners of my eyes, and I have to squeeze them shut so they don’t escape.

It’s the same face he gave me ten fucking years ago when he lied and told me it was Billy Sharpe who was hurting him.

One breath in, one breath out.

Easy...

My fists clench painfully in my lap.

“I’m done talking about this,” he says shortly.

I hear his stool scoot back. The guitar lands on the bar with a soft thud. I open my eyes to follow him as he makes his way over toward the jukebox. He lifts his inked fingers to the screen, tapping away. A second later, “Edge of Darkness” by Greta Van Fleet starts playing loudly through the speakers.

When he starts making his way back to me, his eyes narrow. Steps slowing. “What?”

I flash him a thin smile. “Nothing.” I love this band.

He gives me a look like he doesn’t believe me before shaking his head. Under his breath, he mumbles what sounds like, “Whatever.”

Reaching over the bar, he steals the bottle out of my hands. Our fingers brush and I ignore the way everything seems to just...tighten. My throat. My chest. My jeans, for fuck’s sake.

Goddamn, I really need to get laid. It’s clearly been too fucking long if I’m capable of popping a boner after that conversation.

Waylon lifts the bottle to his lips, tipping his head back, not breaking his hooded gaze from mine. Does he even realize what he’s doing? The effect he has on me?

Something tells me he’s perfectly aware.

And that? Well, I don’t know what to do with that.

Rubbing a hand across my mouth, I glance away. Tapping my fingers lightly against the edge of the bar as I try to focus on the music and not the guy sitting across from me. I’m surprised he stayed. Tonight’s just full of surprises, it’d seem.

The second verse picks up and he trades the whiskey for his guitar.

“I thought you only listened to sad dead people from the ‘90s.”

He rolls his eyes, flicking the strings as he starts to follow along with the song. “Says the guy who thinks Tom Petty is God’s greatest gift to mankind.”

I whistle under my breath, a slow grin lifting my face as I grab the bottle and lift it in cheers. “Touché.”

I watch as he easily harmonizes the acoustic with the song.