I was alone. I wanted a drink.
And I was trying to resist the pull to climb back into the car and head straight for Atlanta.
Fiddlers was packed, buzzing with energy that rivaled the constant noise of the city. The walls seemed to vibrate with conversation and clinking glassware. There was music in the background but it wasn’t loud.
Miles and Easton raved about Fiddlers. Before their lives turned into lovey dovey shit, they would tell me everything that would go down at the infamous dive bar. It never interested me much, but it always made me happy that they had a place like that to go.
I found a spot in the corner and sat down, keeping distance from the bar, but close enough to watch everything unfold. I didn’t want to be approached, I just wanted to watch and try to see what my brothers saw in the old place.
That’s when I saw her.
The bartender moved like she owned the damn place. She was efficient, effortless, and sharp. Her blonde hair was pulled back, a few strands loose around a face that was frustratingly familiar.
I watched her while I slowly nursed a bourbon, trying to place where I’d seen her before. The longer I looked, the more certain I became that I had known her. Somewhere.
Then the drunk guy, who also held a hint of familiarity, leaned over the bar, slurring too loud, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. He pushed into her space with the confidence of a man who’d never been told no.
She didn’t flinch, nor did she look rattled. But she did draw a clear boundary that the drunk guy ignored completely.
Then he dropped his glass.
It hit the floor and shattered, the sound cracking like a shot across the room. Every conversation dipped for a beat and all eyes shifted toward the bar.
That was when she snapped.
She rounded the bar, a towel flying off her shoulder like a white flag that meant anything but surrender. She was storming toward him with murder in her eyes.
I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. I just moved toward them, hoping to somehow mitigate the impending battle.
The petite bartender was either going to break his face or break herself trying, and neither seemed like a good idea.
“Easy,” I said, catching her wrist mid-swing.
She froze at my touch, her entire body taut with rage.
I stepped in front of her, gently pushing her behind me and shielding her. The drunk squinted up at me, breath thick with beer and stench.
“You’re done here,” I said evenly.
“Don’t think so, rich boy,” he growled, though he swayed when he said it.
Cute nickname. It meant he knew who I was but that didn’t shock me. Most people around Harmony Haven knew I existed.
I tilted my head, saying nothing. Daring him.
He blinked a few times, but backed down. He shrugged and faced toward his buddy. “Rich boy is lucky I’m tired,” he muttered. “Let’s spare him tonight.”
I didn’t move until they were out the door and the room's energy shifted back to something almost normal.
Then the bartender shoved past me, hands on her hips, her glare hot enough to singe skin.
“I had it handled,” she snapped.
“You were about to shatter your fingers on his jaw.”
She lifted her chin, fierce and unyielding. “Would’ve been worth it.”
“No doubt,” I said, allowing a small grin. “But you’d hate sitting in the emergency room with a cast.”
