The first bar she walked into smelled like spilled beer, citrus peels, and the sharp tang of lime being sliced. Happy hour was in full swing—suits loosening ties, laughter too loud, bodies pressed closer than necessary around high-top tables. Lila slid onto a stool at the far end of the polished wood bar, legs crossing so the hem of her black silk dress rode high on her thigh. She didn’t bother tugging it down.
The bartender noticed her immediately.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves of his black button-down rolled to mid-forearm, revealing a sleeve of ink that disappeared under the fabric. Dark hair shaved on the sides, longer on top, a little messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. A scar cut through one eyebrow, giving him the look of someone who’d fought and won
