Page 96 of Most Likely to Fear Love

Harle had told me there was no need to be nervous, or embarrassed, but I was going to do it anyway. That’s just how I was as a person. You couldn’t walk back into the bar you’d made an absolute spectacle of yourself at and not feel the shame all over again.

But when Harle’s warm hand slipped into mine as we crossed the parking lot of The Rusty Nail, some of that anxiety melted away. Only some of it, mind you. The neon sign buzzed overhead, casting a red glow across his face as he glanced down at me with one of those reassuring smiles that had become so familiar over the past week.

“Breathe, darlin’.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re making me do this.”

He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into my palm. “Because if you don’t, you’re always going to feel shit about it. I want you to see that it’s not as bad as you’ve imagined, so you can let it go.”

The worst part about this was that I knew he was right, dammit.

“Will anybody be there from…that night?”

“Maybe. Probably. Pete will be, at least, since he owns the place.”

“Fuck, this is so embarrassing.”

“We going in? Or are you too chicken shit?”

That did it. I lifted my chin, ignoring the acid churning in my gut. “We’re going in.”

“Good girl.”

My stomach still did a little flip when he pulled open the heavy wooden door. The familiar scent of beer and wing sauce washed over us as we stepped inside.

I scanned the dimly lit room, my eyes darting from table to table. A few people sat at the bar, hunched over their drinks. A group played pool in the corner. Another cluster gathered around what looked like a birthday celebration near the jukebox.

My shoulders tensed as I tried to pick out familiar faces, but then reality hit - I’d been so drunk that night, I probably wouldn’t recognize anyone even if they had been there. The thought made my cheeks burn.

I shifted my focus, watching for reactions instead. Were any of the regulars giving me side-eye? Whispering behind their hands? Pointing? Everyone seemed absorbed in their own conversations and drinks. No one even glanced our way, except for a quick nod of recognition toward Harle.

Pete looked up as we approached. My stomach clenched, waiting for some sign of judgment or recognition. But he just smiled and grabbed two glasses.

“The usual, Harle?”

No mention of broken bottles. No raised eyebrows. No knowing smirks. Either he was being incredibly professional, or maybe... maybe that night hadn’t been as memorable to everyone else as it had been to me.

Harle nodded at Pete. “Yeah, thanks. But make them sodas tonight.”

Pete’s eyebrows lifted for a fraction of a second before he switched directions, reaching for different glasses. My throat tightened. Was that judgment I detected? But no, his expression remained neutral as he filled our drinks.

Harle’s arm slipped around my waist as we settled onto the barstools, and leaned into his solid warmth. The familiar scent of sawdust and pine that clung to his clothes wrapped around me like a security blanket. His thumb traced small circles against my hip, and some of the tension drained from my shoulders.

“Two Cokes.” Pete set the glasses in front of us, ice cubes clinking.

“Thanks, Pete.” Harle’s voice rumbled through his chest where I pressed against him.

I wrapped my fingers around the cold glass, focusing on the condensation beading beneath my touch, rather than the memories of that night trying to surface. Harle’s arm tightened around me, as if he could sense my thoughts spiraling.

Pete picked up a glass and started wiping it with a white cloth, his movements practiced and smooth. “How you doing these days, Cassidy?”

My mouth went dry. The ice clinked in my glass as my hand trembled slightly. “I’m... I’m okay. Thank you.” The words came out barely above a whisper, and I felt heat creep up my neck.

“Good to hear.” Pete’s weathered face softened, and he set down the glass he’d been polishing. “You know, we’ve all had rough nights here. Hell, last month I had to drag my own brother-in-law out by his ear after he tried to serenade the pool table.” He shook his head, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Place wouldn’t be the same without a few good stories, right?”

I managed a weak smile, some of the tightness in my chest easing. The simple kindness in his voice, the casual way he wastreating the whole thing - it was exactly what I needed, even if I couldn’t quite believe it yet.

“Though I gotta say,” Pete added, reaching for another glass, “you’ve got better aim than most. Hit that wall dead center.” He winked, then moved to the other end of the bar where someone was waving for his attention.

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