Chapter Six

You can only outrun someone for so long—especially when they're your boss.

I've spent the entire week dodging Maverick, switching shifts with Emalyn, and hiding behind Joey's easygoing smile. But tonight? No more hiding as we're all rostered on for the Friday night chaos shift.

Lucky me!

I step into the locker room and don't even get a chance to drop my bag before Emalyn spins around, showcasing a pair of black booty shorts like a weapon.

"Let's get that money!" She wiggles her hips.

I groan, but take them. After all the favours I've asked this week, I owe her.

"To tips," I mutter, holding them up like a toast.

"To tips!" she cheers, already halfway into her crop top.

We head out to the floor, the noise of early crowds already buzzing through the bar.

I keep my eyes on anything but the bar. There's glasses to be cleared, two guys in the corner are already yelling at the sports game on the television screen.

But I still feel it.

His gaze.

It slides across my skin like heat, pausing just a second too long on my thighs. My stomach flips. I don't even have to look to know it's him. I can feel it—like a pulse in the air.

"Do you want the bar or tables?" Emalyn asks, tugging her ponytail into place.

"Tables," I answer too fast.

She arches a brow. "Okay."

I grab a tray and disappear into the crowd. If I keep moving, maybe I won't have to talk to him. Or see him. Or remember how it felt to have his arms wrapped around my waist.

I'm here for tips. Just tips. Not his eyes. Not his touch. Definitely not his voice in my head.

The bar is busy enough that I might be able to avoid him for the entire shift.

Except how delusional do I have to be to believe in that?

The answer?

Very delusional.

I throw myself into the night's chaos like it might drown out the thoughts spiraling in my head.

The shift blurs into clearing tables, sticky trays, and entertaining the drunken locals so they tip better. I slide between tables with practiced ease, dodging drunk hands and flirty comments.

But every few minutes, I glance toward the bar.

And he's not there.

Maverick's usual spot beside Joey is empty, and he's left serving the customers by himself.

I circle the floor again. Still no sign of him.

Weird.

I shouldn't care where he is, but I do. The longer he's gone, the heavier this low ache builds in my chest, like the warning before a storm.

I duck into the kitchen to drop off empty glasses, then take a sharp right down the hallway that leads to the back exit. The door's cracked open, a sliver of golden light spilling across the floor.

And that's when I hear it.

Her laugh.

Soft. Flirty. Familiar.

I freeze just outside the doorway, my breath catching in my throat.

I scrunch my eyes shut and take a deep breath. You don't care, remember? Maverick can do whatever he wants.

Why am I creeping towards the door like it's going to change something? I subtly peer out the door and catch a glimpse of them.

Maverick is leaning against the exterior of the building, his posture relaxed and arms crossed. The girl is tucked close, her hip brushing his. He's smiling at her.

Not the cocky smirk he's usually sporting—but that smile. It's the one that made me fall for him too fast under twilight skies.

My stomach twists.

She says something, and he laughs like it's the most natural thing.

It shouldn't bother me. Not after everything I've said.

But it does.

It's not just jealousy—it's grief. Grief for the girl I was two months ago, standing barefoot on a beach and believing every word he said.

I step back before they see me, my chest tight.

He's still the same.

And I was stupid to think he could be different.

Emalyn warned me—he's good at pretending. And once again, I almost believed he was different.