I can’t help but smile. She clearly doesn’t give two shits about it.

Waylon clears his throat. “You’re early.”

I cast him a look. “Figured I could squeeze in a beer or two. First night jitters, you know?”

He snorts. “Right.”

I grin, glad our little truce seems to still be somewhat intact, even if things feel a bit strained. I’ve only seen Waylon once briefly since my first night back in town. I stopped in on Wednesday for a couple drinks and to hash out work details with Mason, and I happened to run into Waylon on his way out.

He wasn’t surprised to see me, so I figured Mason gave him the heads-up I was coming. I know we agreed to start over, but I wouldn’t put it past him if he was avoiding me when he could.

He quickly finishes up the drink he’s making—a Shirley Temple. He strings a few cherries onto a toothpick and plops it in the glass before sliding it toward Phoebe.

She wiggles in her seat excitedly as she makes grabby hands.

Waylon gives her a stern look that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. “Drink up. You have five minutes.”

She huffs dramatically as he turns away, heading toward the fridge. “But Waylon.”

“No but Waylons.’’

I try to cover my snort. I really, really do. But I clearly don’t do a very good job of it, because he narrows his eyes on me. “Don’t even think about it.”

I pretend to zip my mouth shut and toss away the key.

He sighs and turns back toward a pouting Phoebe. “You know the rules, Phee. My hands are tied.”

She perks up suddenly as if remembering something and she nearly falls as she whirls around in her stool. On instinct, I reach over wicked fast and grip the back of the stool, steadying her.

She whips her head around and flashes me a grateful smile over her shoulder, nearly smacking me in the face with her hair, because it’s that long.

I startle when I hear a glass hit the wooden bar top. I turn as Waylon wordlessly slides over a Lager. I arch a brow, letting go of Phoebe’s seat now that she’s got whatever it was she was looking for—a black ball of fabric from what I saw—and is no longer a fall risk.

“What? You want something else?” Waylon asks, blinking at me.

Letting out a short laugh, I shake my head and grab the beer. “No, this is fine. Just surprised you remembered.” Surprised you paid attention.

He narrows his eyes. “I’m a bartender. It’s my job to remember what people drink.”

Right.

Raising one hand—palm-up—in mock surrender, I hide my growing smile behind the rim as I drain nearly half the bottle in one gulp.