Page 4 of Whiskey & Wreckage

“I turned off my phone,” I murmur. “I couldn’t look at their names anymore. Couldn’t see those messages pop up. I wanted to disappear.”

“You picked a good bar to do it.”

“You know the worst part?” I lift my head and meet his gaze. “I kept thinking I had done something wrong. That if I were just… prettier, or smarter, or less me, maybe he wouldn’t have,”

“Don’t,” Thomas says, voice firm. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”

I blink.

“You didn’t deserve it. People like that don’t cheat because something’s wrong with you. They do it because something’s wrong with them.”

Silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable. Just real.

“Thanks,” I say softly.

He shrugs. “You already threw something at me. Might as well earn it.”

I laugh again, pressing my fingers to my eyes to stop the tears from rising.

“You might actually be tolerable.”

“Careful,” he warns. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

The room tilts slightly as the whiskey settles in, my limbs suddenly feeling heavy and slow.

“I think you’ve reached your limit,” he says gently.

“Probably,” I murmur, letting my head drop to his shoulder.

He goes still, tense for just a second, before relaxing into it, his arm draping lightly around my back.

“Thanks for not being the worst,” I whisper into his jacket.

“Anytime, Poppy.”

And just like that, my eyes close. For the first time in hours, I let myself breathe.

I don't know this man. I shouldn't feel safe.

But I do.

Chapter Two

THOMAS ASHCROFT

I’ve madeplenty of questionable decisions in my life, but escorting a drunk, emotionally wrecked woman out of a bar definitely ranks high on the list. Top five, easily.

But something about this girl, with her smeared mascara, sharp tongue, and suspiciously violent peanut-related vendetta, makes me feel oddly protective.

“You’re cut off,” I tell her. “You’ve had enough whiskey for five people.”

She pouts up at me. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

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