Each night started with the flip of a switch. Hey Joe’s neon OPEN sign flickered and hummed to life. Lola’s watch read 5:59 P.M., but time had no place on the Sunset Strip. Johnny wiped down the wraparound bar with the efficiency of someone who did it more often than he brushed his own teeth.

“Opening at goddamn six o’clock,” Quartz said, shuffling in. “You ever heard some people like to drink their lunch?”

“But if we opened earlier, you wouldn’t get to say that every night,” Lola said.

Quartz’s whiskey on the rocks already sat in front of his regular stool. “Bad enough you’re going to cut me off in eight hours. When’s Mitch going to wake up and open his bar at a decent hour?”

“Don’t think he’ll be getting to that,” Johnny muttered. “Your tab’s hit its max, Quartz. Need you to pay that tonight.”

“But if I did, you’d never get to say that.”

“I’m serious.” Johnny kept the whiskey bottle in his hand, ready to refill Quartz’s glass. “You see anybody walking through the door? This isn’t back in the day. Look around.”

Quartz made a point of twisting on his seat. “Looks like the same old trough I’ve been drinking out of since ’67.”

“The point is, you want a bar to come to every night, need to help keep us in business.”

Lola shook her head quickly at Johnny.

“What?” Johnny asked, leaving the bottle on the bar to serve another customer. “They’ll find out at some point.”

Lola ducked under the hatch and came up behind the bar. “Don’t listen to him,” she said to Quartz, taking Johnny’s rag and picking up where he left off.

Quartz put the rest of his drink back with a jerk of his head. “Never do. Figured out years ago that your boyfriend’s ponytail holder is cutting off the circulation to his brain.”

“He gets crabby when business is slow,” Lola said. “Mitch’s been breathing down his neck about bad sales.”

Two more regulars came in and took their seats next to Quartz. Lola served them and stood back as they grumbled about their wives, bosses, and neighbors. At least, those were the typical topics. She wasn’t actually listening because she was watching Johnny at the opposite end of the bar. For the third night in a row, he checked the bulbs on a string of busted Christmas lights that’d been up for nine months.

“Why don’t you just buy new lights?” Lola asked.

“Because these ones are fine, babe. There’s only one broken bulb. I just need to find it.” The lights were even smaller in his sizeable hands. He raised his brows at her. “You going to trade me in for a newer model the day you figure out my one flaw?”

Lola smiled. “After nine years, you must keep it pretty well hidden, whatever it is.” Before she’d even finished the sentence, a car engine revved out front. And then another. An ear-splitting racket nearly shook the building.

Quartz swiveled around on his barstool. “They trying to wake the dead?” he yelled.

“Nah. Just get some attention,” Johnny said. “Ignore them.”

Fumes seeped through the open door, clouding the room. Lola spent five or more nights a week at Hey Joe, the place she considered her second home. The staff and the patrons were her family. So when a lone beer drinker in the corner booth glared at her, she felt responsible for putting a stop to the commotion.

It was dark out. People roamed down the Strip’s sidewalk. An electric-blue Subaru was parallel parked out front. The owner, who couldn’t have been much older than eighteen, honked at her.

“We’ve got customers inside,” she called over the noise. “Take it somewhere else.”

He hit the gas again. Behind him sat a black Nissan with red rims and a matching spoiler. The driver turned his music up so loud the sidewalk vibrated.

Lola went to the curb. With a rag from her apron pocket, she waved away exhaust fumes. It took one well-placed, swift kick of her Converse to put a dent in the Subaru’s fender. “I said—”

The driver gaped. “What the—?”

“Get the fuck lost!”

He jumped out and came around the hood toward her. Lola braced herself for an argument, but he stopped mid-step and looked up.

“You heard the lady,” Johnny said from behind her. “Don’t make me call your mommy.”

“Look what she did to my car.” The kid pointed at the dent. “That’s a brand-new paint job.”

“She’s done worse to men twice your size,” Johnny said. Some people by the door snickered.

“But—”

“Look, kid,” Johnny said. “Something you should know about this little stretch of the Strip—we don’t call the cops. We handle our own business.”

The boy flipped them off with both hands but returned to his car.

Johnny squeezed Lola’s shoulders. “Can’t go around kicking people’s cars, babe.”

She glanced back at him. “He started it.”

Even with affection in his brown, gold-flecked eyes, the look he gave her was louder than any words.

“Aw, come on,” Lola said. “I’m not the one who threatened to handle him.”

“Why do you say it like that?” He tucked a loose strand of his long hair behind his ear and half smiled. “Think I can’t take a couple punks?”

“Oh, I know you could. I also know that you, Jonathan Pace, are all talk.”

Johnny winked. “Not when it comes to my lady.”

With a kiss on the back of her head, he left Lola standing at the curb. She slung the towel over her shoulder. The two cars took the pavement in a fury of screech and burn, and what followed was a rare moment of silence. Sunset Strip was always busy, but every year the crowd at Hey Joe thinned a little more.

Lola turned to go back inside. Everyone had cleared the sidewalk except one man, who was watching her. He stood by the door with a hip slightly cocked and his long arms straight at his sides, as if he’d been passing by and hadn’t meant to stop. Even in the dark, she was struck by his movie-star good looks—chocolate-colored hair styled into a neat wave, a jaw so sharp it could cut metal. She might’ve guessed he’d accidentally wandered over from a film premiere on Hollywood Boulevard, except that he was too buttoned up and stiff.

“You lost?” she asked.

He straightened his back. “What gives you that impression?”

“If you’re looking for happy hour,” she said, pointing west noncommittally, “try a few blocks down.”

“There’s no happy hour here?” He checked the lit, orange sign on the roof. “At Hey Joe?”

“Not the kind you’re looking for.”

He touched the perfectly done red knot of his tie. “It’s the suit, isn’t it? I look out of place.”

She moved closer, pulled by the deep lull of his voice. The LED beer logos in the window turned the lingering smoke multi-colored. His deep-set eyes were dark, his jaw abrupt in all its angles. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His attractiveness sank its teeth in her, more obvious with every passing second. “Not just the suit.”

“What then?” He ran his fingers through his stiff, rust-colored hair. He had so much of it that the gesture made some strands stand on end. “That better?”

It was that he was too much—his green, almond-shaped, watchful eyes, and his tall, straight back. He didn’t match the carefree laughs and imperfect postures of the people inside the bar. He turned them into commoners, with their round faces, round eyes, round bellies. It was that until that moment, she’d thought she knew what it meant to get butterflies.

But she couldn’t say those things. “We just don’t see a lot of suits at this end.”

“You work here?” he asked.

Lola stuck her hands in the pockets of her apron. “Not like I wear this thing to make a fashion statement.”

His loud laugh almost startled her. When he stopped, it echoed. He looked from her neck down, everywhere and all at once, as if he might reach out and touch her. His perusal made her feel exposed, and she was glad her apron subdued the cropped T-shirt and leather pants underneath it.

“You really did a number on that car,” he said, his eyes back at her face.

Lola didn’t embarrass easily, but there was no denying the sudden warmth in her cheeks. Wherever this man came from, people didn’t kick cars there. “You must think I’m a real class act.”

“Doesn’t matter what I think.”

“I guess that’s a yes then.” She shrugged, because he was right—he was a stranger. She did things like that all the time in front of customers, new and old. Then again, none of them had ever given her butterflies.

He turned his head toward the door so his profile, straight and clean like his suit, was backlit by the sign. A face as handsome as his almost seemed predatorily arranged to disarm prey. “That was your boyfriend?”

“Who, Johnny?”

He looked back at her. “Ponytail and Zeppelin T-shirt. Big guy.”

She shifted on her feet. “How do you know he’s not my husband?”

“You aren’t wearing a ring.”

She balled her hands, which were still in her apron. The man stared at her longer than was appropriate, but she wasn’t ready to look away. That was why she had to. “I should get back to work.”

He nodded. “So should I.”

She glanced around the block. There weren’t any offices nearby.

Before she could ask, he said, “I was actually on my way in for a drink with some colleagues. I’m here on business.”

“Here?” she asked. “This bar?”

He turned and pulled open the door. “This very one. After you, Miss…?”

Light slivered onto the sidewalk. From the bar came a soundtrack of snapping pool balls, glass bottoms on tabletops, men arguing. “Lola,” she said, then amended, “Lola Winters” because he looked like a man who dealt in last names.

“Lola.” He smiled up to his dusky-green eyes. “Beau Olivier. Nice to meet you.”

She didn’t move right away. She liked the closeness of him. “Sounds French, but you don’t.”

“I’m not. My father was,” he said. “I grew up here.”

“Was?”

“He passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” Lola said.

“It was a long time ago. C’est la vie.”

“C’est la vie,” she repeated.

He looked at her expectantly. For a moment, she’d forgotten they were about to go inside. She cleared her throat and walked through the door. Hey Joe’s interior was booths mutilated by cigarette burns older than Lola, and black and muddied-white checkered linoleum flooring. A neon-pink mud flap girl watched over the crowd from behind the stage. They were things Lola only thought about once in a while when she considered reupholstering, replacing or removing them. But she thought about them then.

“What can I get you?” she asked over her shoulder as she walked.

“Scotch, neat.”

“Preference?”

“Macallan if you’ve got it.”

She stooped behind the bar. “That isn’t on special, Beau,” she teased.

He smiled again. “I like the way you say my name.”

“Yeah, well. So does Johnny.”

Beau joined two other men at the bar—the ones who’d snickered on the sidewalk earlier. They were younger than Beau, younger than Lola even, in T-shirts and flannels, jeans and sneakers. She wouldn’t have looked twice at them if they’d come in without Beau.

Lola made his drink, glancing at him from under her lashes. He’d loosened his tie. She noticed things about him she hadn’t in the dark—the early shadow of stubble forming on his cleft chin, fine lines around his eyes, dimples that hugged his smile like parentheses. He’d called Johnny big, but Beau likely surpassed him in height.

Beau walked back to her end of the bar. She gave him his Scotch.

“Is it just me, or does alcohol taste better on a Friday?” he asked.

“See those guys?” She nodded at Quartz and the others posted in their usual spot. “Tastes the same every day of the week to them.” She watched them as if looking through a window into her life. It didn’t matter the day, their conversations ran a loop of the same topics. That kind of thing was standard around there. “Bottomless glasses, arguing about bullshit. I still don’t know how they function day to day when they’re here drinking four, five nights a week.”

She turned back to Beau. He’d been staring at her profile and flinched when she caught him, but he didn’t look away. He lowered his drink on the bar.

“What?” she asked, busying her hands by filling the sink with dirty glasses.

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing.” She turned on the faucet and squeezed dish soap into the water. “I’ve seen that look before.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

She glanced up. “Looks like that lead to trouble.”

“Probably. I’m not good at keeping my opinion to myself, though.”

She paused. Warm water rose up her forearms. Instinct told her to ignore the comment. She’d done a good job of staying out of trouble since coming to Hey Joe. It’d been a while since anyone besides Johnny had looked at her that way, though. With some hesitation, she asked, “What’s your opinion?”

He squinted at her. “You move around this bar like you’ve been doing it for years. But something doesn’t quite click. I’m wondering how you got here.”

“That’s easy,” she said. “On two legs.”

“Then what keeps you here?”

They stared at each other. He didn’t look as though he expected an answer, and that was good. She wasn’t going to give him one—it was none of his business.

“You think you have me figured out in ten minutes?” Lola asked.

“That’s ten minutes longer than it takes me for most people.” Beau kept his eyes on her face. “And that has my attention.”

“Is it hard to get your attention?”

“It’s harder to keep it,” he said, without even a threat in his voice that he might take his attention away. Even though neither of them moved, it was as if they were getting closer and closer. “But you, Lola, you’re—”

“We’re low on change,” Johnny said, turning the corner from the back office. “Can you do a bank run Monday?”

Lola plunged her hands deeper into the hot water and fumbled for the sponge. “Sure,” she said and wiped her brow with her forearm. “Yeah. I have to make the deposit anyway.”

Johnny looked from Lola to Beau.

“This is Beau,” she said. “Apparently my little show out front made him thirsty.”

Johnny nodded once and shook Beau’s hand. “Johnny. Welcome.”

“This your bar?”

“Nah. I just manage it with Lola.”

“She’s modest,” he said. “She didn’t say she was a manager.”

“Assistant manager to my boyfriend.” She looked at Beau’s empty glass. “Guess you needed that drink. Another?”

Beau reached inside his jacket and took out his wallet. “Looks like it’ll be one of those nights. Let me guess…cash only?”

Lola nodded and refilled his drink.

He put some bills on the bar and gestured toward the men he’d arrived with. “For our first round. Everything they order goes on my tab.”

Johnny blatantly stared at the cash-stuffed, dark leather wallet in Beau’s hand.

“Do they work for you?” Lola asked.

“Not yet. But I want to show them a good time.”

“So you brought them here?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Hey Joe could definitely be a good time, but it was a lot of other things too, like rough around the edges.

“This is the type of place where they’re comfortable,” Beau said. “Which is what I’m after. A colleague suggested it, said it’s been around a while.”

“Only fifty-three years,” Johnny said. “It’s practically a landmark.”

“Longer than I realized,” Beau said. “What makes it a landmark?”

“It was the place to be in the sixties and seventies,” Johnny said. “Live music drew everyone from bikers and hipsters to actors and movie producers.”

“I guess that’s why the Hendrix reference.”

Johnny nodded. “The owner’s dad saw him perform here on the Strip late one night for a small crowd. Apparently it was so magical he named the bar after it. Man, I would’ve fucking loved to have seen that. Not that I was even born yet, but still.”

Beau looked at the microphone on the empty stage. “What happened to the music?”

Johnny shrugged and leaned his hip against the counter. “The club went pay for play in the eighties when Mitch took over. Bands didn’t like that, and we lost our cred. Fans followed the music elsewhere.”

“How’s business now?” Beau asked.

“It’s all right. We get acts in here some weekends, but nothing to write home about.”

Beau shrugged. “You never know. These days, it’s all about the comeback.”

“That would be great, but it’s not pulling in half of what it used to,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “Can’t afford to keep the doors open.”

Beau glanced up around the bar. “Well, considering its history, and if it’s still got some name recognition, he should have no problem selling the place.”

“That’s the plan. Sell or shut it down.”

“Johnny,” Lola warned.

“Secret’s practically out, babe.” Johnny looked at Quartz and the other guys. “It’s just those dummies down there who know nothing about anything.”

“I take it they won’t be too thrilled,” Beau said.

“Some of them have been coming here since opening day,” Johnny said. “No, they won’t like it.”

“That’s a shame.” Beau picked up his drink. “I should get back to work. If you’ll excuse me.”

He left Johnny and Lola to get a table with the other two men.

“What’re you thinking?” Johnny asked, nudging Lola’s shin with his shoe.

She looked from Beau’s table back to Johnny. “Just that it’s been a while since I heard you talk about music like that. When’s the last time you and I went to a real concert?”

Johnny closed one eye as he thought. “Years. Concerts usually happen at night. We don’t get a lot of nights off together.”

“We should ask Mitch for one soon. They can survive one night without either of us.”

Johnny kissed Lola on the forehead. “I would, but he’s got a lot on his plate right now. Let’s see how things work out these next few weeks.”

“Oh, I remember the last time we went to a show that wasn’t here,” Lola said. “Beastie Boys, Hollywood Bowl.” She smiled as the memory played out on Johnny’s face. “And then…”

“That’s right.” He paused. “The night we had that huge argument.”

Lola nodded and leaned toward him. “Which then became the night of the drunken angry sex.” Her heart kicked up a notch. “What would you say to an encore? A bottle of tequila, a show and you getting lucky?”

“An encore? We must not be thinking of the same night,” Johnny said. “We both drank way too much. I don’t even remember what we fought about, just that a table lamp paid the price.”

“Me neither, but I do remember one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had,” Lola said. Her ass throbbed. It wasn’t the only time Johnny had spanked her, but it was the first and last time he’d done it like he’d meant it. It’d been like sleeping with a stranger after having the same partner for years.

Johnny shook his head. “I don’t understand. You want us to have another blowout fight?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Not fight. I just think a night out could be good for us.”

“That’s not something I want to recreate,” he said, turning away. “But I promise, once things get sorted here, we’ll do something for ourselves.”

Lola frowned. That night had always stuck with her in a deranged, inexplicable way. There’d been something crackling in the air. She’d assumed the same was true for Johnny, but apparently he’d experienced something else—something entirely different.

Beau was heading back toward the bar, a slight swagger in his step. He didn’t look as though he’d hesitate a moment before delivering a hard slap on her rear end. Lola’s breath caught.

“We’ll take another round,” he said, leaning his elbows on the bar. “Might as well keep them coming.”

Lola grabbed a glass before Johnny could, eager for the distraction.

“You guys play?” Beau asked. He gestured to a cup of darts against the back wall.

“Yep,” Johnny said. “My girl’s queen of the bull’s eye.”

“Is she?” Beau grinned. “Up for a game, Lola?”

“Why don’t you play with one of your friends?” she asked. She handed Beau his drink and pointed at the end of the bar. “Or the locals will take anyone on. When they’re drunk enough, you can clean them out.”

Beau lifted his glass to his mouth, shaking his head. “No challenge in that. I only go up against those who play to win.”

Johnny wiped his hands on a rag and nodded over at Lola. “Then you want this one. Got a bit of a competitive streak.”

Lola was wary about spending too much time around Beau. They were already hedging on dangerous territory. “Sorry, but I’ve got customers.”

“It’s all right, go ahead,” Johnny said, taking the drink in Lola’s hand. “I’ll get these to the table.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Why not? Go. Have fun.”

She shrugged. “Okay. If the boss says so.”

“If you think I believe I’m really your boss, you’re fooling yourself,” he joked. “We both know it’s just a title.”

She laughed but stopped abruptly at the way Beau stared at her—as though he’d forgotten Johnny was even there.

“What should we play for?” she asked. She stuck a hand in her apron, pulled out a few dollars she’d made in tips and showed them to him. “It’s all I’ve got on me.”

“I’m thinking slightly more than that,” he said.

“Like what?” she asked.

“How about a hundred bucks?”

“That’s a little steep. I’m confident, but I’m not stupid.”

“The higher the stakes, the better the game,” Beau said. “Not worth playing if you don’t have something to lose.”

“It’s fine, Lo,” Johnny interjected. “I got you covered.”

A hundred dollars wasn’t chump change for Lola and Johnny, but she had a feeling it was for the man standing in front of her, waiting to play. His tie was silk, and his suit custom—nothing from the rack. Lola knew enough to tell the difference.

She came out from behind the bar, and Johnny passed her the darts. When she went to take them, though, he wouldn’t let go. Their eyes met. He told her with a look that, just like Lola, he smelled the money on this man.

The dartboard was on the opposite side of the bar, against one of the dark, wood-paneled walls. She and Beau walked by the regulars, under the dated, medieval-style chandelier and by some yellowed Polaroids of rowdy patrons.

At the toe line, a strip of curling duct tape, Beau held one hand out. “Ladies first,” he invited.

He didn’t know much about her if he thought she was a lady—and didn’t know much about darts if he thought that was how you decided who threw first—but Lola kept her mouth shut and took her place. Her dart just missed the triple twenty. She aimed the second one a little higher and landed it.

“Impressive,” Beau said. “Where’d you learn to play?”

“Johnny taught me when we first started dating. Before long I was better than him.” She threw the last one. “Some people just pick it up easier.”

“Or maybe you’re like me. I never take my eye off the target.” His dart bounced off the wire. “Sometimes I miss, but I never miss twice.” He threw again, this time hitting the center.

He got quiet for his last throw. She watched him, the constriction of his neck when he swallowed, the tautness of his jaw while he concentrated. If he was this self-possessed and powerful looking during a light-hearted game, she guessed he’d be a force everywhere else.

“Where’d you say you work?” she asked him.

“I didn’t.”

“What do you do?”

He threw his dart, but neither of them watched where it landed. “I’m a founding partner of a venture capital firm downtown.”

“Those guys you’re with don’t look like colleagues.”

“They own a tech startup I’m thinking of investing in. I like to take my time getting to know the people behind the project before I make any decisions.”

“Isn’t that kind of thing normally done in a conference room or over a golf game?”

He smiled. “Sometimes it’s a golf game. Sometimes it’s a trip to Vegas. For these guys, a local watering hole’s where they’re most comfortable.”

“What about you, though?” she asked. “Are you comfortable here?”

“It’s not my first choice.” He looked at her closely. “But I don’t mind a change in scenery now and then. And this is definitely a departure from my usual thing.”

Lola took her spot at the duct tape and threw. “I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.”

“It is. Take the women who work for me, for instance. They’re all blonde. Even the ones with dark hair look blonde. I don’t know how they do that.”

“Well, this is L.A.,” Lola said. She retrieved her darts from the board and passed them to him.

He didn’t move right away, except to turn a dart over in his hand. “You don’t see any with hair like yours.”

“Mine?” Hers was more of a mane, black and thick as the day was long. Straight too—she got that from her dad. One of her few memories from before he’d left was a woman stopping them on the street to say Lola was her dad’s spitting image. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That color—pitch black. It reminds me of the night. Unpredictable. Smooth, but a little wild. No end, no beginning, like midnight. But then your skin,” he continued, shaking his head as if in wonder, “white like the moon.” He laughed abruptly and took his Scotch from the nearby high-top table where he’d set it. “Well. I’ve been known to get a little romantic when I drink, but this has to be a new level.”

“It’s nice,” she said without thinking. Her palms were sweating. Come to think of it, the bar seemed warmer than usual. “This place isn’t exactly known for romance.”

“What’s it known for, Lola?”

She blinked several times as she thought. “It used to be…electric. Regulars insist you could see this block from space, all lit up in neon lights. Hear it too.”

“Still a lot of neon here,” he said.

“True. It takes more than some neon signs to make a place electric, though. Lately people gawk like we’re some kind of relic. Problem is, we’re still here.”

“Gawkers aren’t good for business?”

“Not if they aren’t spending. I keep telling Mitch we need to become relevant again, because we’re really lacking new business. And when the tourists forget about us, we’re in trouble.” She took another turn. “So how come you don’t know all this if you grew up in Los Angeles?”

“I know some of it. I’ve just never been big on nightlife.”

“Why not?”

“I work a lot. In my twenties I was an employee by day and an entrepreneur by night.”

“Building your firm? What’s it called?”

“Bolt Ventures, but no, I’m referring to my first company,” he said. “I went through a lot during those years, but it eventually paid off.”

“Do you have hobbies?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. Before he could answer, she added, “Outside of work.”

He blew out a laugh. “Some,” he said. “Mostly it’s just work, though.”

“God, you must love what you do,” she said and smiled. “I’m all for working hard, but it’s nothing without some fun.”

“Don’t worry,” he said evenly. “Because I work hard, I get to have fun too.”

Her smile wavered wondering how a guy like Beau had fun. Johnny played guitar, but only for himself. A rock band in high school was the last time he’d performed publicly. Otherwise it was video games or tinkering with cars and bikes at the auto shop where his best friend was a mechanic.

Beau, on the other hand, wouldn’t play an instrument. Not the guitar, anyway. She couldn’t picture him with a gaming controller or a wrench in his hand either. He was tightly wound. If a man like him didn’t loosen up once in a while, he’d snap.

Johnny didn’t stress out often, but even he needed to unwind. A couple years back, Hey Joe’s alcohol order had gotten mixed up right before the only bartender on duty called and quit. “At least he called,” Lola had said, but Johnny wouldn’t hear it. His parents had moved to Florida days before, and Lola’s car—long gone, now—wouldn’t start. Johnny’s eyebrows had been so low on his forehead, she’d worried he’d scare off customers. With five minutes to open, Lola had taken him in the back and given him the blowjob of his life. He’d been fine after that.

Lola squinted at Beau. It’d been years since she’d thought of that. She definitely had sex on her mind tonight. Had Beau ever been blown in a seedy bar like this? Would it relax him? Turn him on? Would he find that…fun?

“I’m boring you,” Beau said. “I never go on about myself this much. Either the Macallan’s kicking in or you’re too easy to talk to.”

Lola was about to tell him to keep talking—she liked having a new voice in the bar. It didn’t hurt that that voice was bottomless, as if it came from some untouched depths inside him. And steady, in a comforting way. She could listen to him all night. She shook the feeling off.

“So what’ll you do if this place gets bought out?” he asked.

“I try not to think about it,” Lola said. “It’d be hard on us. Johnny loves this place as if it were his own.”

“And what about you?”

Over Beau’s head were some photographs of the owner’s dad with bands and customers who were long gone. “There’s a lot of history here,” she said, her eyes wandering over the pictures. “I’m closer to the people here than I am my own family.”

“But you could see yourself doing something different,” he guessed.

“Different?” It hadn’t occurred to her. Johnny had been bartending for twelve years, and she’d been by his side for eight of them. They were a team. “The late-night scene can get old,” she admitted. “I suppose if it were between moving to a different bar or trying something else, I’d maybe think about something else.” Lola hadn’t even known she’d be open to a change until she’d said it aloud. She’d assumed she and Johnny would always work together, but Johnny’d never do anything outside the nightlife industry.

“Something like…?” Beau asked.

She considered it a moment. “A restaurant would make sense, or a coffee shop. At least the hours would be better.”

“So then serving food and drinks is your passion,” Beau said.

She simultaneously laughed and scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just being realistic about my options. They’re limited without a college degree.”

“You didn’t go to school?”

“Dropped out my first semester.” Lola mock-gasped with her fingers over her mouth. “Unheard of in your world, isn’t it?”

“No.” He frowned. “I didn’t go to college either.”

She cleared her throat. She hadn’t expected that. Yet, he only said he’d started a business—not that it was successful. Maybe it wasn’t. But there was his suit, the cut of it, the way it moved with him instead of against him. It turned his shoulders into two strong right angles with a large expanse in between.

If she pretended there were a bug, she could reach out and brush it away just to see if the fabric was smooth, scratchy or something else. And she could get an idea of what was underneath it.

“What’d you do before this?” Beau asked, oblivious to her wandering imagination.

“Before this? Nothing really. I’ve worked here since I was…” She almost couldn’t finish the sentence. It was a lifetime ago now. In the eight years she’d been doing it, she couldn’t pinpoint when she’d decided waiting tables would be her career. “Twenty-one,” she finished. “That’s how old I was when I started.”

“So that would be, what?” Beau pretended to count to himself. “Two years ago? Three?”

“Nice try,” she said as she laughed.

“I can’t be that far off. You could pass for early twenties.”

“Maybe compared to tonight’s crowd. You and I might be the only ones under forty.” She guessed at his age to see if he’d correct her, because he could very possibly be forty.

“Except for Johnny,” Beau said.

“Obviously except for Johnny,” Lola said quickly. He’d flustered her with the insinuation she’d forgotten about Johnny—because she had.

“You’re a bit younger than me, though,” Beau said, his voice light, teasing. “And I’m a bit older than you.”

She wanted to ask by how much, but she just glanced at the floor. “Not a lot older, I don’t think.”

“The way you’re smiling a little makes me think maybe you wouldn’t mind an older man.”

“Actually,” Lola said, lifting her head, “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Johnny’s the oldest guy I’ve been with, and he’s a few years older than me. And my guess is you’re a few years older than him. And my other guess is, whether or not I’d mind an older man isn’t really your business.”

His eyes twinkled. “You’re right. It was inappropriate to suggest you might. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you are.” She turned away from the probing look on his face, more intimate now than it’d just been.

“I don’t think you are, either,” he said.

She paused, and against her better judgment, looked back. His cheeks were high and round, as though losing the fight against his smile. “Don’t tell me you’re forfeiting the game,” he said.

“And give you the satisfaction? Never. I’m in it ’til the end.”

“Then why are you walking away?”

“If I’m going to hang around you any longer, I’m going to need a drink for myself.”

He put his hand in his pocket and stalked slowly toward her. No longer on the verge of smiling, he looked at her as though she were on display in a museum, some rare and amusing find.

She stood her ground, even when he came close enough that the tips of their feet almost touched. His eyes, their unusual oval shape and striking color—he narrowed them and frowned as if he were trying to read her but couldn’t. He leaned in. He was going to kiss her right there in front of everyone. She had to move, push him—something. She looked at his mouth, his bottom lip slightly fuller, slightly pinker than the upper one.

“Are you going somewhere dangerous?” he asked.

She tried not to sound as breathless as the thought of kissing him made her feel. “What?”

He put his hand over hers, encompassing it in warmth. He turned it over. Instinctively, she opened her fingers to reveal a dart she hadn’t realized she’d been gripping.

“I’ll hold onto this—unless you think you’ll need it for protection?” He took it and walked back a few steps. She wondered if she’d been wrong that he couldn’t read her because of the way he grinned. It was as if he knew something about her she didn’t.