Shit.

What the fuck is Liam doing here?

“That’s all right, never did like them,” he says, a smile beginning to curve his lips upward.

My stomach twists, my heart kicking against my ribcage.

Of all the stupid fucking times and the stupid fucking places to see him again.

“I could put an orange wedge in a beer if you’d like,” I offer.

I look like shit, wearing black pants and a black button-down shirt and a vest. A vest, the least-attractive item of clothing after socks with sandals.

And of course he looks like walking British sex, tall and hot and wearing a suit, fucking smirking at me like an asshole. He’s probably already banged one girl in the bathroom here, figured out who he’s going after next—

“So, could I get an old-fashioned and a Smithwick’s? No orange, thanks,” says the girl next to him, the one who just waved her arms in his face.

Maybe he’s with her. Like with her. She’s pretty, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and she’s not wearing a vest and serving cocktails.

“Of course,” I say, and turn away, grateful for something to do besides gawp like a moron.

I grab the beer and mix the old-fashioned, my mind running at 1,000 rpm the whole time. He didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t anything and now he’s here. With this other girl, smirking at me, looking fucking incredible in a suit.

Secretly, I’d hoped he’d relapsed or something. Gotten arrested, fallen into a pit, I don’t know. I wanted some explanation for why he couldn’t call me.

But the truth is right here, in front of me.

He just didn’t call me.

I plaster a smile onto my face, turn around, hand the old-fashioned and the beer to the girl. Curl my toes in my shoes for extra strength.

“What can I get you?” I ask.

“I ought to demand a pint for free.”

“It’s an open bar,” I point out. “We don’t have pints but everything is free.”

“Don’t take the fun out of it, Frankie.”

I want to ask where he’s been, what he’s been doing. More than anything I want to say why didn’t you call me, but this isn’t the time or the place.

“All right,” I say, cocking my head slightly to one side. “You can have a free drink, then. Just you, nobody else. What’ll it be?”

“Club soda with lime.”

I narrow my eyes at him. I know I’m flirting, and maybe I shouldn’t be, but I can’t help it. He’s so... flirtable.

“You harangue me into pretending to give you a special free drink, and then you want seltzer?”

“It’ll be free, right?”

Fuck. He’s still got the same accent, still the same fucking irresistible asshole as last time we met, and I pour him the drink while doing my best not to smile, hand it over the bar.

The girl’s watching us, puzzled. I try my best not to act like my insides feel like bees buzzing around a space heater, like after he leaves I might have to go hyperventilate in the walk-in freezer.

Liam grabs the glass, his fingers over mine. An electric current runs from him to me, no matter how much I wish it didn’t.

“Frankie,” he starts, and his eyes drop to our hands on the drink.

He stops, like he’s recalibrating. Then he looks at me again, but something’s changed in his eyes.

“I hope you’ve been well,” he finally says, taking the drink from me. I let my hand fall. “We should catch up. Good to see you.”

“You too,” I say, but he’s already walking away, the girl he’s with next to him, and I watch them walk away across the grass, past a stand of yuccas, and disappear.

I don’t cry. I kind of want to, but instead the next person steps up to the bar, I ask what they’d like, I make a drink. I go on autopilot, the only way I can get through the remaining ninety minutes of this cocktail hour.

People make strange drink requests. Lots of them want to know how many carbs are in a cocktail, and one woman asks for a kale margarita, like that’s even a thing.

The bride and groom flit back and forth, looking disgustingly happy. From time to time I see Liam, sometimes with them, sometimes talking to other people. More than once I watch him walk out of his way and up to the other bar to replenish his drink.

I guess he doesn’t want to see me, not even while I pour him club soda.

You were wrong, I tell myself, pouring a heavy-handed Scotch for a man who seems to think he’s very important. It happens. You were wrong about him, so you move on.

Jesus, this happens every day, get yourself together.

“A very pretty drink from a very pretty girl,” he guy says, holding his Scotch up like he’s offering a toast.

I just stare at him for a long moment, not in the fucking mood for this.

“Right,” I finally say, my voice flat.

Thankfully, he just walks away.