The next few weeks pass in a blur. Like most days at Amelia’s, Peter rushes from the kitchen to the dining tables, greeting his customers that are as loyal to him as they were to his mom. He lets Allison deal with the new ones because the sheen of sweat and desperation he carries with every new sale is not as appealing as he likes to think it is. He knows their food is good and their customer service is unparalleled; he just wishes everyone on the street knew it too.

He whips batters, fries burgers, and carefully decorates a cake that was ordered for Hattie Harrison’s eighty-fifth birthday, a regular since the day Amelia’s opened. He dodges questions about his break up and dutifully refuses to be set up by Hattie and her daughter. He thinks about his mom and how badly he wishes he could make the restaurant thrive the way it did for her.

His ears burn when he overhears a customer, young and with her hair in the biggest bun he’s ever seen, talking about how good the eggs are here but how much nicer the atmosphere at Sal’s is.

Peter hates Sal’s. It’s an overpriced, underwhelming restaurant that only does well because it’s decorated nicely. Decor is important, sure, fine, Peter will give them that. But how can the decor be so great that Peter’s superior eggs don’t even matter?

He wants to see this so-called nice atmospheric decor. He needs to figure out what this place is doing to so swiftly put him out of business. He gnaws on that thought all afternoon, in between rushes and lulls in the day. The idea that he’s failing so miserably for no reason other than goddamn decorations pulls at the strings in his chest, tightly winding the muscles there.

Then he overhears a second set of patrons go on and on about the new baked goods at Sal’s. Apparently, they hired someone new a few weeks ago and his desserts were so good, that the place was becoming a genuine hotspot.

Peter’s terrible at desserts. He always screws up the pie.

He has no idea who the new pastry chef could be, and according to the gossiping customers, none of them know, either. Poplar is a small enough town that the women at the table are sure if someone who could make something that good was a townie, they’d know about him by now.

So, great. Peter’s decor sucks and Sal recruited from out of town, probably just with the intention of running Peter out of business. Fantastic.

When the last customer has been ushered out and Damien starts cleaning up the kitchen, Peter excuses himself from his employees. He climbs the creaky old stairs up to his apartment, two at a time, and unlocks the door, shoving with his shoulder to get the swollen wood to move.

He stumbles into his apartment, slamming the door behind him. He detours to the bathroom and washes his face and hands, eager for the smell of cooking oil and sweat to be washed off.

Peter should go back downstairs and help clean up, wipe down the tables, and sweep the kitchen. He should do the books and maybe kitchen inventory. He has things to do and a business to run—but the day has been long, even if the customers were sparse, and he’s exhausted.

Though he thinks most of his exhaustion is from fending off Damien and Allison’s constant worried looks. His friends mean well, they really do, but he doesn’t know how to explain to them that he just doesn’t care.

He wants to care. He just doesn’t.

He shuts off the water that had been running far too long and looks at himself in the mirror.

He looks haggard, with wrinkles and lines etched into his face, too many for a guy who’s only twenty-five. He wants to wipe away the stress of the last six months as easily as he wiped away the dirt on his skin. He wants to remember what it feels like to not be thinking about budgets and mimosas, or lack thereof.

He wants to figure out what the hell Sal’s is offering that is so much better than Amelia’s.

Peter dries his face and hands off.

He could go in as a customer—but that seems unlikely to work because the town is small, and Sal definitely would recognize Peter the second he stepped into the restaurant. And even if he didn’t, how bad would it be for business if he was seen going into the rival restaurant? As if his own food wasn’t good enough?

No, he can’t go in as a customer.

He can’t send someone in either, because that would mean admitting to the fear of losing. He doesn’t want to admit to his employees or friends that Amelia’s is struggling. That seems almost as bad as going in himself.

Throwing himself onto his couch, Peter groans.

He could just wear all black and sneak around, an incognito mission worthy of James Bond.

He laughs at the idea, running his hands down his face. God, he’s going to go bankrupt because…

The phone rings, breaking him out of his thoughts.

He digs around the cushions, looking for his abandoned cell phone. He finds it from where it’s fallen, answering it only a little out of breath.

“Hello?”

He leans back, letting his head fall on top of the couch. It puts his neck in a weird position and he ignores the crick growing there.

“Peter?” His name comes out a little garbled and Peter thinks for the hundredth time he really needs to get a new phone.

He pulls it away from his face to glance at the caller ID. His best friend’s name blinks up at him from the phone.

“Nick,” he says, grinning. “How’s it going, man?”

There’s a huffing sound from the other side of the line and Peter frowns, waiting for Nick to actually say something instead of just laugh at him.

Eventually, he does. “Um, maybe don’t ask me that. I’m calling to ask you that.”

“Why?” Peter sits up, wincing when his neck twinges. Nick’s voice is suspiciously sharp, angled as if he knows something that Peter doesn’t. He tries to do damage control by answering the question. “It’s going fine with me.”

“Why? Why am I asking? Um, maybe because I heard from goddamn Damien that you broke up with Kyle.”

Peter freezes. He fucking forgot about Kyle again.

“Oh,” he squeaks out. “Um, oops?”

“Oops? It’s been weeks man!”

Peter has an image of his friend’s ginger hair lighting on fire. He can practically imagine him erupting in flames for this.

“Sorry, man, it just—slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind?” He sounds incredulous but the anger seems to be seeping away. “Dude.”

“I know,” Peter throws a hand up to his head, smacking his forehead. “I’m terrible.”

“Hey, no, it’s—” Nick cuts himself off. “Why don’t you come over tonight?”

Over as in the bar Nick works at.

Peter contemplates briefly. “No thanks.”

“No?” He can practically hear Nick’s gaping. “I haven’t seen you in over a month!”

“I’ll stop by sometime soon,” he says.

“Yeah,” Nick agrees. “Like tonight.”

Peter groans. “I just want to sleep.”

“What you need is to get out of that damned house. Get up, take a shower, and come to the bar. Now.”

The phone clicks, and Peter tosses the phone to the couch when he realizes Nick hung up on him.

He considers ignoring Nick’s advice but decides that’s probably a rude thing to do, especially after apparently ignoring him for weeks. Peter knows he does that sometimes, forgets to check in with people, but he doesn’t do it on purpose. He just gets busy, lost in his head—he wishes his friends understood that more.

But their lack of understanding, isn’t a lack of caring, so Peter heaves himself off the couch and dutifully showers, dresses, and climbs in his truck for the ten minute drive to the edge of town.

When he pulls into the parking lot, the bar is crowded as if it’s a good place to be.

It’s a dive bar, for sure, but the town considers it better than that because it’s their only option. The neon sign that announces its hours has long ago gone out and the whole thing smells like Budweiser and sweat. Peter has been going there since he was eighteen and actually getting in since he was twenty-one; he probably helped decorate the stains on the upholstery more than once.

When Peter started working full time at Amelia’s, officially instead of just the child labor of family businesses, his best friend Nick got a job bartending. Peter’s pretty sure if Nick ever left the entire place would collapse; he’s the only one who keeps the place looking like it actually deserves the health inspection rating it has.

Peter gets almost to the bar before Nick notices him; his friend’s reaction is instantaneous.

“Peter!” He calls out, fist pumping. “Look, guys, he’s alive!”

The drunks at the bar cheer loudly. Peter ignores them, and ignores the blush heating up his cheeks, as he settles onto an empty stool.

Nick hands him a beer, popping the top off for him. “I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter grumbles, taking a pull of the drink. It’s cool and refreshing and he feels instantly better about his decision to come.

The bar is packed but seemingly not busy, by the way Nick immediately settles with his hip against the counter and his own draft beer in his hand.

“I can’t believe the elusive Peter Jacobs left his house.”

Peter’s lips quirk. “I leave my house.”

“Yeah to go to what is essentially your basement.”

“Please stop calling my restaurant a basement.”

“Can’t stop the truth, Pete.” Nick winks.

Peter laughs. “I’ve just been busy.”

“How have you been more busy than usual?”

“I—It’s—” Peter drinks more of his beer. “Sal’s been open a few months now, and their business has really picked up.”

“So you’re more busy because you’re less busy?” Nick asks.

“Yeah,” Peter doesn’t explain the logic. It’s sound, anyway, he’s pretty sure.

“Well, thanks for carving out some time,” Nick’s eyes dart away, and his face morphs as a customer grabs his attention. He sets his beer down next to Peter and goes to the other side of the bar.

Peter spins the stool around, leaning with his elbows on the back of the bar, balancing his beer on his knee, as he surveys the room. He really hasn’t been here recently, and it’s comforting to see how little it has changed. Even the clientele is essentially stock photos of who is always there. Peter can see the Harrison brothers playing pool, Angie Meyers who works at the auto shop, Tom Carlisle from the bank—he recognizes his neighbors and it’s comforting in a way, his shoulders relaxing.

He starts to turn back to face the bar when his gaze trips over something.

Someone. Someone new.

The new guy stands in the corner next to the jukebox, his arms crossed with a beer balanced between two fingers. His legs are stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles—it’s a long line of muscle propping him up, obvious even from beneath the dark jeans, and Peter’s mouth dries.

But as nice as his legs are—and they are nice, they are really, truly, glad-he-left-his-apartment nice—his face takes the cake.

Sharp, angular bones, big lips, and hair that is coiled loosely and cascading down his shoulders—Peter can’t see what color his eyes are from here but he starts placing bets with himself inside of his head and finds that he really, really wants to know.

He keeps staring, wondering what the rest of him looks like, what the details he can’t see are, wondering how the hell he missed him when he first came into the bar, until Nick loudly clears his throat.

Peter spins back so quickly some of his beer splashes out of the bottle.

His face feels like it’s being lit by flames. “What?”

“What?” Nick asks, crossing his arms. “You’re going to sit there, looking like a tomato, and ask me what?”

Peter tries to draw himself up, but shrinks immediately under Nick’s raised eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Oh, my ass. Who is that?” Nick makes a show of looking around Peter’s shoulder to gawk at the guy.

Peter slaps at his shoulder, whining out his name. “Nick! Stop!”

It goes on until Nick’s laughing too hard to care.

“Shut up,” Peter can feel the hot guy’s presence behind him, as if it’s tangibly affecting the space between them. He wants to turn around. His body twitches with the effort to stay still.

“You like him.”

“I do not!” Peter drinks more of his beer and focuses hard on not choking.

“Then you don’t want to know who he is,” Nick picks up a few of the dirty dishes around the bar and goes to put them in the steam washer, ignoring the way Peter is glaring at him.

Peter would strangle Nick if he wasn’t his best friend and the one that apparently has information on Hot Guy.

By the time Nick comes back to him, Peter’s whole body is a second from passing out. He just wants to know.

Nick grins. “Okay. Now, let me repeat myself: you like him.”

Peter’s teeth clench. “He is—quite attractive, I suppose.”

Nick throws his head back, laughing loud enough that a few people look over. “Um, understatement.”

“Just—what do you know?”

Nick winks and grabs Peter another beer from below the counter. Peter quickly finishes his old one and accepts the new one.

Nick takes a pull of his draft before sneaking a glance at Hot Guy. “That, dear Peter, is the enemy.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“He’s the new pastry chef at Sal’s.”

Peter can’t help it; his head snaps around to eye the man again.

This time, he’s looking. He gives Peter a once over and a smirk before turning back to his phone.

Peter turns to Nick.

“He started a few weeks ago, I guess. He’s like a drifter who makes cake, and he’s the only reason people keep going back to Sal’s dumb place.”

“How do you know all of this?” Though, really, Nick always knew things.

Nick rolls his eyes. “I’m a bartender. People just tell me things.”

“Why would people tell you about him?”

“He’s hot.” Nick gestures towards him, turning his upended palm into a small wave when the guy was looking. Peter stops short of burying his head in his hands.

He manages to wait until Nick is busy with another customer before looking back around.

Somehow, the guy seems hotter now that Peter knows he’s the enemy. He’s the guy Peter has been hearing about, the one essentially ruining his business; that’s bad news. He’s hot and the first guy in a long time that Peter’s felt so instantly attracted to; that’s also bad news.

The good news is that all of that is a good enough reason to chug this beer and get out of there.

Nick interrupts his getaway plan. “I found out his name is Drew, he’s a bit of a jerk, but he’s also probably single. Again, drifter.”

“Stop asking about him,” Peter grumbles.

Nick winks. “Who says I’m asking for you?”

Peter blinks. “Oh, yeah. Fair dues.”

“Just kidding. He’s way more your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Eh,” Nick shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”

Peter changes the subject. “So, how are things with you? I’m out of the loop.”

Nick perks up, launching into a huge story about how his friend wanted to set him up but the guy was being particularly reluctant and she was insisting it had nothing to do with Nick, which Nick thought was a little untrue.

The story continued for the duration of the beer and when Nick offers him a third, he declines.

“I should get going. I’ve got to open tomorrow,” he reaches into his wallet to pull out some cash when Nick waves him off.

“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you soon, though? I work again tomorrow.”

Peter shoved his wallet back in his pocket. “I’ll keep that in mind. Bye, man!”

“See you later!”

Peter winds his way through the crowd and pushes open the door. It won’t budge and he shoves harder, using his weight to shove the reluctant door open.

When it does, he stumbles out and slams into someone.

Their arms shoot out and steady him, and Peter clutches at them to stop himself from falling down.

He stops swaying when he looks and realizes the person he slammed into is none other than the enemy, Drew.

And his eyes are definitely, definitely amber.

He owes himself five bucks.