I blew loose strands of hair away from my face and planted my hands on my hips. The pub was quiet, and I was taking advantage of the spare time to restock the liquor shelves behind my bar. They had been in complete disarray when I came in to start my shift, and working with all your liquor scattered haphazardly on the back wall was no way to be productive. My whiskeys were mixed with my vodkas, and the chaos made a little voice in the back of my head shriek at a terribly annoying pitch.

Must. Organize.

I glanced down at the box by my feet, filled with rum and bourbon. I pushed it up against the back wall with my shins and then stepped onto the step stool to begin rearranging the liquor already on the shelves. As I was turning all the labels to face outward, a familiar, deep, sexy male voice spoke my name.

“Jo, you need a hand with that?”

I glanced over my shoulder and down. Zach was standing with his elbows resting on my bar. He was looking up at me, his eyes hooded beneath his dark brows, a smile touching the corners of his lips.

I brushed more hair off my face. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.” I hopped down off the stool and grabbed him a bottle of beer. I waggled it back and forth, and he nodded, so I popped the cap off for him and passed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said before tipping his head back to take a sip.

I hated how my eyes were drawn to his bottom lip pressed to the bottle and to the bob of his Adam’s apple every time he swallowed. His jaw and neck were covered in even more stubble than when I’d seen him last. He had the beginnings of a beard forming, and the look suited him. The dark hair made his hazel eyes appear even brighter, and the dark lashes that framed them had my heart doing weird little pitter-patters in my chest.

“What are you up to?” he asked after draining a few mouthfuls of beer. He nodded toward the bar wall.

“Reorganizing. Last night was pretty busy, and we ran pretty low on stock, so I’m bringing new bottles out from the back. But first, I wanted to put everything back in its proper place. I hate when things are out of order.”

“Likewise.”

I poured myself a glass of water and leaned one hip against the bar. “What are you up to?”

“I was in the neighborhood. Getting ready to move into my new place tomorrow, so I was just at my parents’ old place to see what furniture I could take with me.”

“How’s your mom doing?”

“Better, I think. It’s still a big adjustment for her, but she’s handling it like a champ. It’s probably a good thing my dad went before her. He never would have survived without her.”

I looked down at my feet. “I’m sorry, again, by the way. About your dad.”

“Don’t be.” He waved his hand as if to dismiss my concern. “He lived a full life. Didn’t have any regrets. At least, none that I know of. And he went quickly. If it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go.”

I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine, or if he was saying those things to make me stop talking about his father. I knew from Ryan that Zach had a tendency to be a bit closed off. He didn’t like to talk about personal things or his feelings, so discussing his father’s death was probably an “off the table” topic for him. But if it was me in his shoes, I knew I wouldn’t be okay. I’d be heartbroken.

“You know,” I said slowly. “Just because all of that is true doesn’t mean it’s easy to be one of the people left behind to grieve the loss.”

Zach paused with his beer halfway to his lips. “Of course it doesn’t.”

I finished my water and left the glass under the counter. Then I turned back to the liquor shelves. I nodded, pleased with how much better it looked, and then said to Zach, “I’m going to run to the back quickly to grab more stock. Just give me a shout if a customer shows?”

“Sure thing.”

I went down the narrow hall from the bar to the kitchen and turned left into our storage room. It was full of booze, cleaning supplies, extra linens, toilet paper, condiments, and uniforms, among dozens of other things. I reached for a crate of gin and pulled it down, wincing as a sharp pain bit into my shoulder.

I nearly dropped the crate and had to use the wall to steady it, and then I was able to slowly lower it to the floor. I grabbed my aching right shoulder and massaged it as I rolled it in its socket. I’d pulled something last night while manhandling Brett’s half-limp, drunken body from the bar to the truck, and then from the truck into the house.

After a brief break to wait for the pain to fade, I bent at the knees and lifted the crate with my legs. I carried it out to the front, where Zach watched me lift it up onto the back counter. I grimaced as I maneuvered the box upward.

“What’s that?” Zach asked.

“Gin.”

“Not the booze,” he said. “The face you just made. You hurt?”

I shot him a defiant look. “I tweaked my shoulder yesterday, but I’m fine. Nothing a bit of stretching won’t fix.”

Zach stood up, and I willed him to leave it alone. But I knew how hopeless that was. He walked around the bar and came behind it to stand beside me. He was closer than I wanted—close enough to smell him and to feel the warmth of his body in the air between us. I swallowed and took a small step backward.

“How’d you hurt it?” he asked, his eyes darting from mine to my shoulder.

“Not sure. It was just sore when I woke up this morning.”

The way his eyes narrowed suggested that he didn’t believe me. “Let me help you put this stuff away, then.”

“I don’t need your—”

“I never said you needed anything,” he said sharply. “I’m just offering to help a friend. Is there something wrong with that?”

I blinked. “No.”

“All right. Then let me pass shit up to you for you to put away.”

A little embarrassed for being overly defensive, I nodded and stepped onto the stool. Zach proceeded to pass bottles up to me, and then I neatly placed them on their designated shelf, making sure all the labels were centered and forward facing. Once we had unpacked all the liquor, I climbed down and tucked the ever annoying loose strands of hair behind my ears. “I have one more box in storage. Can you help me get it down?”

Zach nodded. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

I took him down the hall and ducked into the storage room. I pointed up at a box on the top shelf labeled “Tequila”.

“Just that one,” I said.

Zach pulled the box down effortlessly from the top shelf and moved toward the door. Then he stopped, put the box down, and turned back to face me. His frame blocked the door, and I found myself staring up into his beautiful eyes. He glanced at my sore shoulder. “Tell me what really happened.”

“Oh my God, Zach. Come off it. Nothing happened. I probably just slept on it funny. You know? Shit like that happens to people all the time. We can’t all be perfect physical specimens like you.”

“I’ll consider that a compliment,” he said. “But really, what happened?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and scowled at him. Who was he to think I owed him an answer? Where did he get off being so invasive?

“Jo,” he said, stepping toward me and reaching out to gently touch my right elbow. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“What?” I blurted out, caught off guard by his forward question. “No one hurt me.”

“Then why are you lying about what happened?”

I studied him. He wasn’t going to relent. His eyes were hard and his jaw was tight. He’d keep digging until he got his answer. “Fine,” I growled. “My boyfriend had a few too many drinks last night, and I had to get him home. I hurt myself trying to hold him up, I guess. He’s a big guy.”

“Brett?”

“Yeah,” I said. Ryan must have told Zach about my relationship. Damn him. What else had he said?

Zach rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “All right. I’m sorry I pushed so hard. I just had to know. If he was hurting you…” He shook his head and rolled his shoulders, dismissing the subject. “I’m glad to hear he isn’t.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes again. “You know it’s not your concern, right? Whatever happens in my relationship is mine, not yours. And I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”

“I know.”

“Then why the first degree?”

“I care about you,” he said simply.

My cheeks started to burn. He cared? What the hell did that mean?

Zach’s hand fell from my elbow, and he slipped his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Can I ask you something, Jo?” He didn’t wait for my response. He kept on rolling and asked his question anyway. “Am I the only one who hasn’t been able to stop thinking about our night together?”

His question sent me reeling. My mind spun a mile a minute, and my heart raced. Blood rushed in my ears, my palms became instantly sweaty, and a little fire ignited below my belly.

Of course I’d thought about him every day. He was the father of my son.

Should I lie to him? Who was I protecting by denying that I’d thought about him constantly, too? Myself? Surely not. Brett, maybe?

He was looking at me the same way he did that night five years ago, like he saw me and knew everything about my soul. He was waiting ever so patiently for me to make my thick tongue work so I could answer him. But fear was gripping my throat, and all I could feel was the fire inside me burning hotter, hotter, and hotter until a wetness pooled in my panties.

“No,” I whispered.

Zach leaned closer to me, his eyes moving from my eyes to my lips and back up again. “No, what?”

“You’re not the only one who hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

Then, before I could think to stop him, Zach wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me to him. His mouth crashed against mine, and I tasted the beer on his tongue and peppermint on his lips. His fingers pressed into the small of my back as his breathing quickened. We were plastered so tightly to one another that I could feel his heart beating against my chest. Strong and steady.

There was only way I could capture what the kiss felt like: relief.