Abigail’s perched on a barstool when I walk into Hooligans just past ten. I do a double take, not because I didn’t invite her in the first place but because, even with her reassurances, I didn’t expect her to actually come.

“You made it.” I slide onto the leather seat next to her.

“I was promised free drinks.”

“Righto.” I lean forward, well aware that my camisole is cut just low enough to show the tops of my boobs. Behind the bar, Jackson does a double take of his own. His eyes linger on my silky shirt for way longer than is considered polite before sweeping up to take in my smirk. I’m glad I wore my hair down, glad I wore a pretty lace bra, but just as soon as I think that, I correct myself. It shouldn’t make me so happy that he can’t look away, but it does.

Before Jackson has a chance to take my drink order, a flurry of girls arrives next to me and Abigail. They arrange themselves on the barstools with the practiced air of women who have done this before. The blond closest to me winks at Jackson, interrupting before he can speak.

A wink. Could she be any more obvious? I almost burst out laughing.

“Jackson, can we get a round of Cosmos?” she asks in a Boston accent I’m so glad I never acquired.

Jackson looks at me with a bemused grin and I wave for him to continue. Tonight I’m not in a hurry. I’m exactly where I need to be.

Jackson goes through the motions, pulling bottles from the shelves and pouring drinks in an elegant ballet. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to show off his forearms, and I watch the muscles in his arms move as he works. It’s a fine sight, something sexy and commanding about the level of control he has. Even the girls next to me are rendered speechless as they watch.

At last Jackson places the delicate stemware on the bar and the girls throw down a twenty for a tip. After they leave for a booth in the corner, taking their pink drinks with them, I notice a phone number scrawled across one of the bills. Of course.

I never got the chance to go drinking with Jackson in college—not a drink at a real bar, anyway—and I wonder if this would have been typical for him. A room full of girls throwing themselves at him.

Probably. It doesn’t bother me like I thought it would—mostly because Jackson doesn’t seem to care.

Jackson returns to Abby and me with a grin. “Sorry for the interruption. What can I get you ladies?”

“Just a beer,” I say, and Abigail nods that she’d like one too.

He pours two glasses from the tap and adds a curl of orange peel to our drinks, which makes Abby smile. She takes a sip and nods again. “Thanks Jackson. And thanks for hanging out with Nico the other night.”

“No problem. How’s his pirate ship holding up?”

Abby wrinkles her nose. “It’s currently decomposing.”

The three of us laugh and I see Abby’s shoulders relax. It feels good, sitting here with the two of them, Abigail and Jackson being civil to each other for once, because of me.

It makes me feel like anything is possible. I’m going to do this. I’m going to make my business work and be in charge of my life again. I’m going to get back to Boston and write some stories and rule the world because, dammit, I can.

The thought fills me up with this bubbling energy, a warmth that spreads through my chest and makes me smile.

After I drain my glass, Jackson leans against the bar. “Another drink, m’lady?” I feel the heat of his breath on my neck and I have to admit, the muscles in his arms are looking pretty damn good right now.

I look up at him through my eyelashes. “Well, if you’re offering.”

“As long as it’s bartender’s choice.”

“Fair enough.” I want to see what he makes me.

Behind his back, Abigail raises her eyebrows at me. I ignore her.

After a minute Jackson sets a glass on the bar in front of me, sides sweating. When I sample the drink it slips down my throat, cold and sweet. Elderflower liquor and gin and lime and something bubbly. The fizz shoots up my nose and I gasp in surprise.

“This is delicious,” I tell him.

“Figured you might want a break from all your beers.”

“What’s wrong with my beers?”

“Nothing.” He lowers his voice suggestively. “But a little variety is the spice of life.”

It’s so fucking hard to tell when he’s being serious or seductive or just playing, and my body doesn’t care that he’s probably all bullshit. My stomach gets tight and I hate that I still have this reaction around him. I shift on my barstool, grateful when he turns away to help another customer.

Abby leans close to me and whispers in my ear, “Watch out, Nat.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, which probably isn’t fair. Abigail worries about everyone—me and Nico and even her own ex. She puts everyone else’s well-being in front of her own and she does it out of pure love. It’s just who she is.

Abigail gives me a look.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You better be, because I have to leave after this drink. Want me to drive you home?”

I shake my head. I want to drag out this feeling, this high that I’m on. I don’t have to go into Holy Grounds tomorrow and I’m going to enjoy this night, however long it lasts. And anyway, part of this celebration belongs to Jackson, too.

After Abigail heads home, I catch Jackson’s eye. “Can I buy you a drink now?” I lean my elbows on the bar.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were trying to make mischief,” Jackson teases.

“You say that like I don’t know how to have any fun.”

“Oh, I think you’re plenty fun,” Jackson says in that low voice again.

Dammit.

“Just have the stupid drink, Jackson.” He laughs and pours two amber shots of whiskey, then slides one across the bar to me.

“Here’s to being lube moguls,” he says. “Two words I never thought I’d say.”

“Cheers.” I touch my glass against his. “And thank you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.” He tosses back his drink and winks at me. I groan and set down a generous tip. It’s still weird that he’s not at the general store but if his other bar customers tip half as well as those other girls and I do, I can see why it could be lucrative for him to stay here.

Jackson goes back to work and for the last hour of the night I stay perched on the barstool like the president of the goddamn Jackson Wirth Fan Club, waiting until his shift winds down. I may be, maaaay be, a little drunk. It’s kind of awesome.

I don’t think I’ve ever stayed at a bar until closing. Matthew was always so practical, worried about alarm clocks and waking up to be industrious, and it made me practical too. But there’s nothing I need to wake up for tomorrow and there’s a first time for everything.

Jackson looks over his shoulder at me as the last customers trickle out. “You staying?”

“Mmhmm.”

I watch as he closes out the drawers and splits tips with the other servers. Then he wipes down the sticky bar with a soapy rag, making everything smell lemony and clean. It’s soothing, actually, all the din dying down around us while Jackson straightens bottles and cleans glasses. Jackson Wirth, reordering the world.

At last Jackson walks around the bar to me, his jeans riding low across his hips, his muscles demanding I pay attention. He takes a look at me and rubs a hand through his messy hair.

“Honey, you’re not getting in your car.”

I shake my head and the edges of the room blur. “Nope,” I agree.

“Come on then.”

He holds out a hand to help me to my feet and when my palm fits into his, tingles explode up my arm. I don’t ask where we’re going, just let him loop an arm over my shoulder, his skin hot on mine. I take a deep breath and lean into him. We walk outside like that, side by side, into the fresh, dark night.