Page 28 of After All This Time

I glance around the room, catching glimpses of the customers as they go about their night. While some hunch over pool tables, others loudly argue over which Bon Jovi song reigns supreme as they fiddle with the jukebox.

While it's not fancy, it's authentic, and I love that.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of back-and-forth bickering, the two guys by the jukebox settle on "In These Arms" by Bon Jovi, their choice blaring throughout the bar, and I'm seriously considering cranking it up louder because, well, it's Bon Jovi.

I crouch down behind the bar, gathering stray straws from the floor, when I hear footsteps approaching. I stand back up, dusting off my hands and preparing for the next drink order, when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"Hey, trouble, I'll take a commonwealth when you're ready, please." I whip around fast, finding Logan grinning at me as he casually leans against the bar.

"Ah, see, the guy who very poorly taught me about drinks conveniently forgot to mention what that one is."

"Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "You can't even get good help these days. It only has, what, seventy-one ingredients? Shouldn’t be that hard to remember." I roll my eyes and throw the nearest rag at him.

"What are you doing here? Come to check up on me?"

"I wanted to make sure the regulars aren't giving you a hard time."

"Just old Joe," I say, nodding toward the end of the bar where the old guy with an impressively long beard is nursing what has to be his third whiskey, his usual grumpy expression firmly in place.

"Good luck with that." Logan laughs, glancing over at Joe, who suddenly perks up and shoots us a scowl.

An hour later, the bar shifts from its earlier calm to full-on chaos as Daz and his biker crew roll in. We heard them before we saw them—the low rumble of their engines like a warning bell—and now the place is packed with more leather and tattoos than usual.

Logan hops behind the bar to help, followed by Rachel, who rolls up the sleeves on her vintage Guns N' Roses sweater. Meanwhile, Harper is perched on a barstool in front of us, sipping her wine as she watches the testosterone-fueled madness around her.

"I haven't seen you here before." A deep voice cuts through the noise of the bar, instantly pulling my attention.

I freeze mid-pour and look up, finding a pair of dark eyes staring back at me.

Holy hell, he's hot.

He’s not pretty hot.

He’s the kind of hot that makes your better judgment vanish.

"Well, I've been here the past few nights, and I haven't seen you here before either," I shoot back.

Logan's laugh rings out from the other end of the bar, clearly amused. "Leave her alone, Tate."

Tate's smile doesn't falter, and his almost black eyes shift back to mine. "Do you want me to leave you alone…?"

"Amelia."

"Pretty name."

"Thank you."

From her seat at the bar, Harper suddenly pipes up, practically rolling her eyes as she starts to speak. "You've never once been this nice to me, Tate."

"That's because you're into my cousin," he says, his voice loud enough to land with all the subtlety of a hand grenade.

The reaction is immediate. Harper's face flashes a deep shade of crimson, her eyes widening like she's contemplating murder, and I can practically hear her inner scream. I move my gaze over to Logan to see if he caught it, and sure enough, he's doing that thing where he pretends not to have heard a single word, but the way his jaw tightens ever so slightly gives him away. His hands keep moving as he dries a glass, but I can see there's a story there, or at the very least, some feelings between them that haven't yet been dealt with.

"Logan?" Harper calls out, and he looks up from the glass he's been pretending to dry for what feels like forever. "Can you kick him out?"

"He could try," Tate responds with a chuckle before his eyes slide back to mine. "How old are you, Amelia?"

"Twenty-two."

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