Of all the bars in all the world… That’s how Humphrey put it, isn’t it? I keep myself busy as I finish Trixie’s shift. I’m going to strangle her when she gets back Monday. I could have been chilling on my couch with Netflix, not running around behind the bar, trying desperately not to trip over my high school boyfriend.
Jax is gorgeous—he always was, but money and power suit him better than Levi’s and motor oil. His gold hair is just the right level of disheveled to be GQ stylish, and his button-down shirt looks like it was made for him. His shoes are probably worth more than any car I’ve ever ridden in. And his aqua eyes are just as stormy and moody as I remember. It’s a good thing he’s not drinking much, or I’d be handling a bar fight. Unless West Point taught him restraint. That thought makes me laugh. What do men who wear tailored shirts and artisanal leather shoes know about restraint?
Nine years ago, he left here to be his grandfather’s golden boy heir. And I took a check from that same grandfather to stay the hell out of his way. Sounds materialistic, even to me. But I was seventeen, my father was out of a job, and I wanted to go to college. Nobody ended up with their high school sweetheart anyway, and what was the point of competing with East Coast debutantes when I hadn’t had braces and couldn’t afford the nice conditioner? Not to mention inheriting my grandma’s hips and my great-aunt’s chest. My twenties have proved I was never built to be anybody’s trophy wife. Debutantes don’t have curves, Harper.
I avoid the massive reunion happening in his corner. I don’t engage his cousin or any of the others in conversation. I’ve never wiped down the back of the bar so thoroughly. Even the tap handles get polished. By the time the group’s breaking up, I’ve resorted to taking a mid-month inventory my boss didn’t ask for.
And then I find his wallet on their forsaken table. Shit. I pick up the leather item like it might contain smallpox. Heavy, and monogrammed. JH. Jackson Hargrave II. The boy I remember is long gone. Jax Delaney would’ve never carried a monogrammed, hand-stitched, calfskin wallet. I let my fingertip linger on the J and look out the back.
Steve is out there trying to get his tongue down Sherri Walker’s throat. Ugh. No way am I interrupting that. I dash out the front door instead, hoping to catch JT or Carl, but they must have gone across to Big Al’s BBQ. Nobody’s in the gravel lot. Only a Lexus SUV and… Oh. Someone standing beside it. Someone tall, with a hard jawline and…