Sinner (Shelter Harbor #1)(106)

Serena




Four Weeks Ago:



At long last, the beer bottle on the sticky bar top in front of me is naked. It’s taken four grungy rock songs on the old jukebox in the corner, yesterday’s manicure ruined on three nails, and I probably couldn’t even count how many sidelong glances from strangers to do it, but there it is. The just about empty beer is finally bare, the label peeled in shreds and tatters on the cocktail napkin beneath it.

I have no idea why I do this, but it seems to be my go-to move for scowling, pensive moments in bars like this.

What I should be pissed about is the Tinder date that’s just stood me up at the new Japanese restaurant down the street. Tinder. I got stood up by a dating app whose entire purpose is basically a “sure thing.” And just to rub a little salt in that wound, it’s my first time using it.

I wish I could accurately convey how classic this is for me.

But truth be told, I couldn’t really give less of a shit about “Jared” standing me up for sushi. It’s the backstory that’s got me here, shredding beer labels and I’m sure raising serial killer alarm bells with every person who has the misfortune of seeing it. It’s the story behind me even trying out trendy dating apps in the first place.

No, it’s not Jared, whose interests apparently include a mind-bending mix of “radical anti-capitalism”, “dope BBQ food”, and “chilling with my bros.”

Honestly, the day I get upset about missing that date is the day you can take me out to pasture and leave me there.

Besides a mild annoyance of his lack of basic social graces in standing people up, I couldn’t actually care less about Jared.

It’s David, of course. Specifically, posts David makes on Facebook of him, the girl he cheated on me with, and their fucking baby with the tagline “second time’s the charm #blessed.”

Shoot me. Actually shoot me.

I don’t know what possess me to ever bother looking him up and scrolling down through his posts which always seem to include pictures of the two of them looking like the world’s happiest fucking couple and the three of them looking like the happiest fucking family. But I do.

Frequently.

Because apparently this is me at twenty-seven. Single, buried in student loans, stood up by douchebags, and peeling the labels off beer bottles in dive bars while Guns N’ Roses rattles over the stereo system.

If I could strike “Facebook stalking my ex-fiancé” off the list, it’d probably be a step in the right direction.

At least I love dive bars like this. I might be way more than slightly overdressed, seeing as the dress code at Noru is a tad different than this place, but I’ve decided I don’t care.

No one else seems to either, so at least there’s that.

I finally kill the last semi-warm sips from the bottle, and I’m just about to nod at the bartender for another when the door across the horseshoe shaped bar top opens.

And he walks in.

Gorgeous and blonde in that Abercrombie way, his gaze steely as he scans the room before stepping inside. And if I thought I looked out of place in here, he takes the cake with that dark grey suit, that perfect hair, those model good looks.

And I know him.

Not really, but we’ve met, briefly, earlier in the day back at work.

Landon Reece.

He works for the Denver Rattlesnakes or something, and he came by our offices at the Bulls stadium earlier in the day to speak to my friend London about something business related.

Actually, last time I heard, she was out to dinner with him right now.

His hand comes up, a silver, heavy looking watch glinting on his wrist in the low neon lights. He pushes his fingers through his hair as he exhales, the marble-carved hollows of his cheeks shadowing as he blows air through his perfectly formed lips.

He looks like a fucking magazine ad - like he’s been photoshopped or something, standing there looking absolutely gorgeous.

The hand drops, and those eyes of his narrow in the dim light as he starts to move towards the bar.

I duck my head, dropping my eyes back to my beer.

I don’t know who this guy is, really, but I do know he plays for our rival team. Our rival team who my best friend London’s just stolen a star quarterback from for our team, I might add.

I pick at one errant, offending bit of label still clinging to the neck of my beer before I chance another look.

And our eyes lock.

Facing me, across the weird horseshoe shaped bar, past the bartender, past the low light glinting off the shelves of liquor bottles, he’s looking right at me. He smiles curiously, a glass of something brown halfway to his lips.

His grin widens as recognition spreads over his face.

And then he’s moving, stalking towards me around the curved edge of the bar, neatly dodging two guys in leather jackets slamming each other on the back, until suddenly, he’s right there in front of me.