Page 7 of For the Plot
"Exactly. Ancient history. You haven't spoken to him in years. Meanwhile, his dad is over there looking like he could make you forget your own name. You're single, you're unemployed, and let's be honest—you're in a perfect storm of vulnerability and boredom, so really… it wouldn’t even be your fault if something scandalous were to happen.”
I give her a flat look. "You are a terrible influence."
"And yet here you are, still listening." She leans forward, eyes twinkling. "So go say hi. What's the worst that could happen?"
Before I can talk myself out of it, I push back from the table and stand. A dozen terrible possibilities stampede through my brain, but somehow, my feet are moving. My legs feel like they're made of wet noodles, but I smooth my hands over my hips and walk across the bar like I'm not screaming on the inside.
He doesn't look at me until I'm close. But when he does, his posture shifts, subtle but unmistakable. And when his eyes meet mine, a barely there smile spreads across his lips.
I swear to God, I feel it in my knees.
"Skye?"
His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher. Like gravel wrapped in silk. I stop a foot from him, trying not to visibly shake. "Hey, Mr. Blackwood. I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”
He cocks his head slightly. “Mr. Blackwood? Please, call me Reece," he corrects. "It's been a while."
"Yeah, it has."
He nods, his gaze holding mine. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Same. It’s actually my first time stepping foot in this bar." I force a small smile. "You look… different."
His mouth lifts at the corner, followed by a soft chuckle. "Oh, I don’t doubt it. Let me guess. Old?" He runs his hand through his dark hair that has begun to gray at the temples.
"Yes—no. Older maybe but in a good way," I say awkwardly, and his smile widens just a fraction. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound rude.”
“Not at all. I’m not exactly a young man anymore.” He gestures to the stool beside him. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Chapter 2
Reece
It's been a long day. A really fucking long day. I didn't come here to be noticed. Didn't come to socialize or talk or drink anything that wasn't strong enough to cut through the headache that's been building since noon.
I came because this place is quiet, anonymous, and comfortably tucked away from the rest of my life. A bar that feels more like an afterthought than a destination. Perfect for a man who doesn't want to be seen.
But then I see her.
I don't register it at first. Just a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, a laugh that rises above the hum of conversation. Blond hair, slightly familiar posture. I catch her looking at me first, but I don’t think she realizes that I see her. She’s focused on whatever her friend is saying, allowing me a few seconds to take her in between her stolen glances my way.
Her long hair is pulled back, exposing a long slender neck that disappears beneath a hoodie. She leans slightly forward on her stool, just enough that I drop my eyes and catch the curve of the underside of her ass in those skintight leggings she’s wearing.
I turn away, reminding myself that I don’t have time for stuff like this, especially not when I’m pretty damn confident she’s probably far too young for me. I bring my glass to my lips and take another long sip before glancing back over toward her one last time.
She’s still facing away from me, leaning over the table as she whispers something to her friend, but then she turns her head and I catch her profile. And I know exactly who it is.
It can’t be.
I glance away, then back toward her because there’s no way in hell I was just admiring the delicious curve of my son’s ex-girlfriend’s ass. But it is… it’s her.
Skye fucking Rhodes.
I haven't seen her in probably a decade, but I remember her. The girl Archer dated in high school and into college. Bright-eyed, quick-tongued. Always had something to say and rarely hesitated to say it. I remember her showing up at the house with a crooked smile and bare face, her confidence bigger than the quiet rooms she stepped into. I remember the way Archer used to look at her and talk about her.
She was just a kid back then. Sixteen the first time they came home from school together. Always polite. Always quick with a joke. I never knew her well. Hell, I was rarely home enough to try, but she was a presence. Someone I noticed in the way a father notices the people orbiting his son, hoping he’s making the right choices and surrounding himself with people who would uplift him.
When she stands up and starts walking toward me, drink in hand, I tell myself I'm imagining it. That she's not actually headed my way. Until she stops beside me.
