Chapter One
Asher
Getting fired should probably feel more dramatic than this.
There should be shouting, maybe a slammed door, a cardboard box filled with desk junk while everyone in the office pretends not to stare. Instead, I get a Teams notification at 3:42 on a Thursday afternoon telling me to report to Conference Room B.
That’s it.
Seven words and apparently my paycheck is about to die.
I stare at the notification for a few seconds before looking across the office. Tyler, who sits two desks over, has gotten the same message. So has Melissa from the other side of the room. Tyler meets my eyes and grimaces.
“Oh, fuck.”
“Yep.”
“You think they’re—”
“Absolutely.”
He blows out a breath and pushes away from his desk. I lock my computer and follow them toward the conference room, already trying to figure out how much I have in savings.
Twenty-three minutes later, I’m unemployed.
Budget restructuring. Department consolidation. Outsourcing. A whole collection of polished corporate phrases carefully designed to avoid saying that someone somewhere decided we were cheaper to replace than keep.
The woman from HR slides an envelope across the table and gives me the sympathetic smile she has probably practiced in a mirror.
“We really appreciate everything you’ve contributed during your time here, Asher.”
I look at the envelope.
Then at her.
For one spectacular second, I consider asking whether appreciation covers rent.
Probably not worth destroying the reference.
“Thanks.”
And just like that, three years of answering calls from people who forgot their passwords and explaining to grown adults that restarting their computer actually means restarting it comes to an end.
By the time I’m allowed back to my desk, Tyler already has half his stuff packed.
“You drinking tonight?” he asks.
“Probably.”
“Call me.”
“I won’t.”
He snorts. “Asshole.”
“Unemployed asshole.”
“Same.”
At least I’m not the only one. That should make me feel better.
It doesn’t.
By five, I’m sitting on my couch with my laptop open, staring at job listings like one of them personally owes me an apology. I’ve already updated my résumé, sent out two applications, and opened a third listing three separate times because the salary is insulting but apparently unemployment is even more insulting.
The thing is, I didn’t love my job. Tech support wasn’t some lifelong dream. Nobody grows up hoping they’ll someday spend forty minutes explaining to Barry from accounting why his printer won’t connect to Wi-Fi.
But I liked having somewhere to be.
I liked routine.
Alarm. Shower. Coffee. Work. Lunch around one. Home by six.
Simple. Predictable.
Tomorrow morning, there’s nothing.
I lean back against the couch and stare at the ceiling for another minute before snapping the laptop closed.
“Fuck this.”
If I stay here, I’m going to spend the entire night refreshing job boards until I’ve convinced myself I’ll be homeless by Christmas. I need to get out of the apartment. I need a drink. Maybe two.
Afterdark is louder than I expected when I walk in forty minutes later, but not nightclub loud. The music sits beneath the conversation instead of swallowing it, bass heavy enough to feel without forcing everyone to scream. The lighting is low and warm, amber reflecting off dark wood, black leather booths, exposed brick, and enough expensive-looking liquor bottles to make my newly unemployed bank account nervous.
I stop just inside the entrance and look around.
Okay.
This place is nice.
Really fucking nice.
I’ve seen it online before, but I’ve never actually bothered coming. It always looked like somewhere you went with people, not somewhere you wandered into alone because your afternoon unexpectedly ended with severance paperwork.
Tonight, I couldn’t care less.
I find an empty stool near the end of the bar and sit. Nobody immediately rushes over, which is fine by me. I’m studying the shelves behind the bar when a voice cuts through the noise.
“What are you drinking?”
I turn.
And temporarily forget alcohol exists.
The bartender is tall. Not regular tall either. The kind of tall that somehow makes everything around him look smaller. Dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled high enough to expose tattooed forearms.
He looks calm.
Controlled.
Like absolutely nothing in this room happens without him noticing.
His eyes stay on mine.
Waiting.
Right.
Words.
“Whiskey.”
One eyebrow lifts.
“That narrows it down.”
I blink before laughing despite myself.
“Dealer’s choice.”
“That usually ends badly.”
“My day already ended badly.”
Something shifts in his expression, but thankfully it isn’t pity.
I’ve already had enough pity today.
He turns, chooses a bottle, pours, and slides the glass across the bar.
“Try it.”
I do.
The burn hits exactly right.
“That’s good.”
“I know.”
I look up at him.
He doesn’t smile.
That somehow makes it funnier.
“You always this humble?”
“Yes.”
Okay.
I like him.
That’s unfortunate.
I take another drink while he moves away to serve someone farther down the bar. I catch myself watching him and don’t bother pretending I’m not.
He owns the space behind that counter.
There’s no frantic rushing even though the place is busy. No wasted movement. One of the other bartenders reaches for a bottle, and he says something I can’t hear. The guy immediately switches bottles without argument.
Interesting.
A dark-haired woman comes through a door at the far end of the bar, leans over, says something to him, and steals an olive from his garnish tray. He gives her a look. She grins, eats it anyway, and walks off.
Definitely not someone afraid of him.
When he returns, my glass is nearly empty.
“Another?”
I consider it.
“No.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the glass.
“Good.”
I frown. “Good?”
“You’ve been drinking that one fast.”
“I got fired today.”
“That doesn’t make tomorrow disappear.”
There’s something about the way he says it. Not judgmental. Not preachy. Just matter-of-fact, like he expects reality to remain reality whether I’m annoyed about it or not.
I rest my forearms against the bar.
“You always monitor how fast strangers drink?”
“When they’re sitting at my bar.”
I glance around.
“Your bar?”
“Yes.”
“Wait. You own this place?”
“Half.”
“And you’re bartending?”
“When I feel like it.”
Of course.
“What’s your name?”
His attention settles fully on me.
It shouldn’t feel different.
It does.
“Dax.”
Just Dax.
No last name. No explanation.
“Asher.”
“I know.”
That stops me.
“How?”
He nods toward the card sitting beside my glass.
Right.
My tab.
I laugh and shake my head.
“For a second there, I thought you were psychic.”
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
“I survive.”
That almost gets a smile out of him.
Almost.
I decide immediately that I want to see the real thing.
Which is ridiculous because I’ve known this man for maybe ten minutes.
“Do you always interrogate customers?”
“I’ve asked you three questions.”
“Four.”
“You’re counting?”
“Apparently.”
His gaze stays on me for another second, and there’s something strangely unsettling about it.
Not bad.
Just focused.
Like when Dax looks at someone, he actually looks.
Most people wait for their turn to speak.
This man seems to catalogue.
“You came here alone,” he says.
Not a question.
“Yep.”
“First time?”
“Yep.”
“Recently unemployed.”
“Jesus. Do you want my social insurance number too?”
His mouth finally moves.
Barely.
But there it is.
A smile.
Tiny.
Dangerously attractive.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I already know enough.”
Something low in my stomach tightens.
I cover it by reaching for my whiskey.
His eyes drop to the glass.
Then back to me.
I stop.
Which immediately annoys me because he didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell me not to drink. He didn’t even move.
He just looked.
What the fuck?
Dax notices.
I know he notices because something changes in his expression.
Then he turns away.
No comment. No smugness. Nothing.
That somehow makes it worse.
I finish the drink slower.
By the time I ask for my bill, Afterdark has gotten busier. Dax takes my card, runs it, and slides the receipt toward me. I sign, leave a tip, and stand.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I take two steps before stopping.
I hate myself immediately.
I turn back.
“Are you usually here?”
His gaze lifts to mine.
“Most nights.”
“Okay.”
Brilliant, Asher.
Absolutely fucking brilliant.
I turn toward the door.
“Asher.”
I look back.
Dax is polishing a glass like this conversation barely matters.
“Don’t spend all night applying for jobs.”
I stare at him.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You were.”
Fuck him.
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
That almost-smile returns.
“Not yet.”
I walk out before he gets the chance to see exactly how hard that lands.
The cool evening air hits my face, and I shove my hands into my pockets as I head down the sidewalk.
My job is gone.
Tomorrow morning is still empty.
I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing next.
But somewhere between getting fired and drinking one overpriced whiskey, I apparently acquired another problem.
His name is Dax.
And I already know I’m going back.
