Page 32 of Making It Burn
That’s when I saw him.
Beau.
Standing at the other end of the bar, drink in hand, talking to a guy with bleached blond hair and too many piercings.He was laughing at something the guy said, his entire face lighting up in a way I’d never seen at the office.
My stomach dropped.
Of fucking course.
Of all the bars in Richmond, on all the Saturday nights in the world, Beau Thatcher was here.I should leave.Walk out, pretend I’d never seen him.But even as I thought it, Beau’s gaze swept across the room—and landed directly on me.
His eyes went wide.
For a moment, we just stared at each other across the crowded bar, and I swear the music faded, the crowd disappeared, and it was just the two of us locked in this impossible, ridiculous moment.
Then Beau said something to the blond guy and started walking toward me.
Fuck.
I couldn’t move.Couldn’t look away.Could only watch him cut through the crowd with that calm confidence, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Price,” he said when he reached me.“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I live four blocks away.What’s your excuse?”
“I needed a drink.”
“At a gay bar?”
“Is there a problem with that?”
Beau’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something more complicated.“No.No problem.”He took a sip of his drink, and I couldn’t help tracking the movement of his throat as he swallowed.“Just didn’t peg you for the type.”
“The type?”
“To go to bars.You seem more like the ‘drink expensive scotch alone in your apartment’ type.”
“I contain multitudes.”
His laugh was unexpected and genuine.“You’re quoting Walt Whitman at me in a gay bar.That’s very on-brand.”
“I don’t have a brand.”
“Everyone has a brand, Mason.Yours is ‘uptight perfectionist who secretly reads poetry.’”
“I’m not uptight.”
“You organized my spice rack alphabetically.”
“By cuisine, not alphabetically.”
“That’s somehow worse.”But he was smiling, and standing closer now, close enough that I could smell his cologne over the bar smell of beer and bodies.“Want another drink?”
I looked down at my glass.Still half full.“I’m good.”
“Come on, Price.Live a little.”He flagged down the bartender with an ease that suggested he did this often.“Two shots of tequila.”
