you, and now that I am, you don’t want me to?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head, and his attention returns to his phone. “I think this will be a good location for us. Tell your brother that.”
“Are you sure? I’m worried if a restaurant didn’t survive here, will a bar?”
“From what I researched, the restaurant was run-down, and the food was shit. Our bar won’t be any of those things.”
“Okay, Sir Know-It-All.”
“Why’d you come?” he asks, the question falling from his lips so casually, like it’s not rude. “Had you not, we could’ve avoided speaking to each other.”
“My brother asked me to.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“Trust me, I tried to. If I’d refused, it would’ve sounded sketchy.” I tap the side of my lips even though he’s not looking at me. “Would you rather me tell him you fucked me, so then he’ll understand why my new goal in life is to dodge any conversation with you?”
“We decided to keep it to ourselves.”
“And that’s exactly what I’m doing. That includes not making him wonder why I’m so against being in the same room with you. Cohen and I are close. He knows I’d never miss something like this with him.”
“Gotcha. So I should expect to see you around?” He peers up at me.
“You should.”
“Noted. Let’s try to keep it to a minimum.”
His words are a kick through my heart. I hold my head high when I pass him on my way back outside and stand next to Cohen’s car with my arms crossed. As I wait, I’m haunted by flashbacks of the night with Archer—how he said the sweetest things, how he pleasured me like he already knew my body and we were fit for each other. He opened up to me, acting interested in more than a quickie, but it was all a lie.
Maybe Chase is his alter ego.
The pleasant version of him.
It hurt when he acted like he didn’t know me at the barbecue, like I meant nothing to him.
Our night together meant nothing to him.
Maybe one-night stands are the norm for him but not for me.
Rich. Cocky. Handsome.
The perfect trinity for an asshole who breaks your heart.
Archer Callahan is a man who screws women and then leaves them notes as a thank-you.
He made a full damn asshole circle.
Does he not feel bad?
Was I just some disposable fuck to him?
Fuck him.
Fuck one-night stands.
Fuck dudes who leave you don’t worry about locking up notes after they banged the lights out of you all night.
10
Archer
Six Months Later
“We did it, man.” Cohen slaps me on the back, a bright-ass grin on his face.
“We fucking did it.” I stand tall in pride. No bright-ass grin from me.
After six months of finances, hard work, and Georgia-dodging, we’re open. The Twisted Fox is finally open for business and ready to serve drinks. Shockingly, it took only minutes for us to come up with a name. We each chose a word.
Mine was Twisted—since it’s how my brain feels.
Cohen’s was Fox—after his last name.
We purchased the old restaurant building two days after the showing, then gutted it, remodeled, and created a bar. There were no complaints from me on the location. Anchor Ridge is the small town where Cohen lives and is twenty minutes from my house.
Cohen brought in his friends and Georgia to help, so I sent Kiki, who now has a new job but at least waited until the bar was complete, to do most of my bidding while I handled the behind-the-scenes financial aspects.
The less time around Georgia, the better.
Also, the less I feel guilty about what I did.
When I see her, I’m reminded of how I let her go because I could never have her.
Because it would’ve been nothing but problems before shattering altogether.
She hates me now, and I fake hate her.
My plan is to make her hate me more.
If she despises me, there will be no temptation.
It’s opening night at the bar, and so far, everything is rolling smoothly. Thanks to Silas, there’s been talk about the opening. A small radio station is in the parking lot to promote us, and he somehow convinced a few athletes to show up and post their location on social media.
It worked.
It’s insane how busy we are.
We created the perfect sports bar with walls of TVs, top-shelf liquor, and an enjoyable atmosphere. I want someone to walk in and feel like they can sit and have a couple of beers with their friends—not caring about a dress code, or bottle service, or a large cover.
The suckiest part is