The roar of the game filled the cramped bar, a cacophony of cheers, jeers, and the constant clatter of pint glasses. Elijah, Gray, and Bart were all caught up in the frenzy, their voices overlapping in a rapid-fire volley of football jargon that meant little to me.
My senses narrowed, everything beyond the booth dissolving into a dull, static hum. I felt trapped, anchored in place by the prickling tension emanating from Gray’s slouched form across from me.
His eyes, shadowed beneath heavy lids, pinched just slightly—always a subtle prelude to his boredom and the inevitable withdrawal from the conversation. Gray was a walking contradiction: a commercial photographer of considerable renown, yet he carried himself like a brooding outlaw plastered with tattoos that probably scared off most employers.
And then there was his infuriatingly striking appearance. No man should possess such impossibly long eyelashes or cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He resembled some rebellious cinematic antihero—part Captain Jack Sparrow, part Bond villain, all magnetic menace.
“Hey, Isla,” Bart’s voice cut through the tension as he tipped back the last of his beer and placed the empty glass on the table with a thud. His attempt to bridge the silence was genuine, his warm brown eyes meeting mine with easy friendliness. “How much would it cost to hire someone like you?”
“A Creative Director?” I parried, curious how much Bart really understood about my work.
Bart’s knowledge of my role at the Seattle agency was vague at best. He likely pictured me as some kind of writer, but the nuances were lost on him.
“You mean a copywriter,” Gray sneered, cutting in with a smirk that made my skin crawl. His gaze flicked between us, sharp and dismissive.
Gray thrived on these little verbal jabs, savoring the moment when he could needle someone’s pride or intellect. He was circling for a reaction—like a shark picking up the slightest scent of vulnerability.
He wielded industry jargon like a weapon, reducing my hard-earned title to something lesser, subtly undermining the years it took me to claw my way past countless men to become Associate Creative Director.
“You don’t want some copywriter like Isla throwing buzzwords on your website,” Gray said sarcastically, his grin dripping with condescension as he glanced my way. “What you really need is some killer photography to show off the bodies.”
“If by buzzwords you mean keywords, Gray,” I replied smoothly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattle, “then yeah, those are crucial. Agencies like mine have specialists who optimize your business’s presence in local search, driving visibility and new memberships.”
Bart nodded, running a hand through his tousled blonde curls, frustration evident. “So keywords mean more people signing up?”
“Exactly,” I said, appreciating his effort to grasp the concept, even if he was still lost in the technicalities. “Think of it as making sure your business pops up when people are looking for exactly what you offer.”
“Thanks for translating, Isla,” Bart said with a grateful smile, obviously relieved to have me on his side against Gray’s biting remarks.
“Hey, where are our beers?” Grady’s voice cut through the banter, breaking the moment.
“My bad,” Elijah chuckled, shaking his head. “I was supposed to grab them, but something much better distracted me.”
He leaned in close, his breath warm against my neck, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. His lips brushed against my skin as he whispered into my ear, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Get a room,” Grady groaned, mock gagging at the unabashed display of affection.
Elijah’s playful growl sent a thrill through me. “I’ve got a room, where I share a bed with an insatiable little firecracker. Can’t say the same for you, buddy. And Grady? Bring a fork!”
“Fingers are nature’s forks!” Grady retorted, wiping sauce from his curls with a grimy napkin. It was hard to reconcile this carefree goofball with the philosopher he was reputed to be.
Bart erupted into loud, boisterous laughter, his broad chest shaking with each guffaw, while Gray watched with a look of thinly veiled disdain.
“I’ll grab the next round,” I offered, eager to escape the thickening tension in the booth. I angled my heels out, slipping from the sticky seat.
Making my way through the dense crowd, I reached into my bag for my purse, grateful for the brief reprieve from Gray’s sharp stare.
Elijah caught my arm, pulling me back into a soft, lingering kiss. His fingers traced lazy patterns up my arm as he whispered, “Thanks, babe. You’re the best.”
I smiled against his lips, savoring the warmth and affection as his tongue traced mine, a silent promise of the evening to come.
“No problem,” I murmured, pulling away just in time to catch Gray’s scowl burning through Elijah’s shoulder. The sight sent a prickling unease along my spine.
Shaking off the chill, I pressed on to the bar, eyes flicking to the gleaming bottles arrayed behind the counter. The crush of sweaty bodies surrounded me like waves, but my mind lingered on Elijah’s kiss and the plans I had for when we got home.
Just as I was about to order, Gray’s voice sliced through the din, sharp and angry. “Come on, that’s bullshit!”
I edged closer, straining to hear the dispute beyond the tall wooden partition that shielded the booth.
“You don’t get it,” Elijah’s voice was strained. “This puts me in a difficult spot.”
Gray’s tone dropped, dark and threatening. “If you keep bringing her around, I’m done. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t even look at her.”
A hot burst of indignation flared inside me. Who was he to dictate how I fit into their world? I had tolerated his parade of careless flings and even tried to extend a hand to his fleeting girlfriends, so his bitterness was all the more galling.
Bart suddenly stood, stepping forward as if to shield me from the brewing storm. His sun-kissed skin flushed with embarrassment beneath his salmon polo.
Gray rose as well, smoothing his button-down over a fitted tee, but the moment his gaze locked with mine, he froze, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.
For a heartbeat, the bar seemed to hold its breath around us, the noise dimming as the tension snapped taut between us.
Then Gray’s expression cracked, revealing a flicker of vulnerability beneath the venom. It was a rare glimpse of the man behind the mask, though whether it was genuine or another calculated move, I couldn’t tell.
I met his eyes steadily, refusing to back down. Whatever grudges he bore, I wasn’t going to be the easy target tonight.
The group teetered on the edge of fracture, but I sensed Bart’s steady presence and Elijah’s protective warmth anchoring me amidst the storm.
Taking a slow breath, I stepped forward, ready to face whatever came next with the quiet strength I’d learned to cultivate over years of fighting for my place in both this group and the wider world.