Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

RYLEE

T he Hall was alive with its usual hum of activity as I worked my shift behind the bar. The familiar scent of chicken wings and vodka filled the air, mingling with the rock music that played overhead. The Hall had seen countless renovations and facelifts over the years, but its core remained unchanged—a local staple in Dallas with almost religious regulars. Some of them sat at the bar, watching me work, while others popped over to say hello before setting up a game of pool or grabbing a table.

Tonight was the annual fundraiser for a local nonprofit that raised funds for a Christmas event, providing dinner, gifts, blankets, and entertainment on Christmas Eve for those with nowhere to go. The Hall had hosted this fundraiser for the last decade, and it was always a huge success. Every ticket had been sold, giving guests a burger, fries, a drink, and raffle tickets. The atmosphere was electric.

It was a quarter to eight. Just fifteen more minutes, and I'd be off the clock. I could already feel the ache in my feet from standing all day. I had been looking forward to going home, taking a long hot bath, and maybe even planning my trip to Europe. It was a dream I had been nurturing for a while now. I was tired of watching my friends move on with their lives while I stayed stuck in the same place. A couple of months in Europe sounded like just the escape I needed. Maybe I'd even meet a sexy Italian man to bring home.

I wasn't a world traveler, but I couldn't wait to start. Sitting around and waiting for life to happen or a hot dude to sweep me off my feet was not going to lead me to happiness. I had to make it happen for myself.

Traveling alone was terrifying, which was why I wanted to do it. I had always been the type to dive headfirst into new experiences, to take the road less traveled. But with each passing month, that adventurous spirit seemed to fade, replaced by a sense of resignation. I had fallen into a routine, a predictable pattern of days and nights that melded together without any distinction. I was bored and feeling stuck. I needed to do something that got my heart racing and made me excited about life.

I had been working at The Hall for a while now, and while the job itself was not remarkable, it was a steady source of income. Usually, I made my money in tips on the weekends. After ten, the place was packed with a younger crowd all on the hunt for someone to take to bed. I didn't believe there were any love connections made here. It was all about hooking up and having fun.

I checked the time again, relieved to see the minutes were flying by. I couldn't wait to get home, get into my cozy pajamas, and binge watch Hell's Kitchen.

Just as I was about to start shutting down my bar, my boss, Phil, came over. He had that look on his face that told me he was about to ask for a favor. "Rylee," he began, scratching the back of his head.

"Phil, no," I groaned, already knowing what was coming.

"We're down a bartender. Can you stay for the rest of the night?"

I grumbled inwardly. My feet hurt, and I wanted to go home, but I also needed the money. If I was serious about my Europe trip, every extra dollar counted. It meant the difference between staying in a cushy hotel or taking my chances at a hostel in a foreign country.

"Alright, Phil," I sighed. "I'll stay."

"Thanks, Rylee. I owe you one," he said, patting my shoulder before heading off to deal with something else.

I took a deep breath and turned back to the bar. The fundraiser was still in full swing, and the partiers of the night hadn't even arrived yet. It was going to be a long second shift, but I reminded myself of my goal—Europe. I could do this. I promised my feet a massage in the gift Mary Ellen had gotten me for Christmas last year. It was a silly gift, but I had used it more times than I could count.

The place was getting busier by the minute, the fundraiser in full swing. I quickly fell into the rhythm of mixing drinks, taking orders, and chatting with the regulars. Despite my earlier frustration, I enjoyed bartending. It was a skill I had honed over the years. I took pride in making bespoke cocktails that my customers loved.

"Hey, Rylee," called out Tom, one of the regulars, as he settled onto his usual barstool. "How's it going?"

"Busy as ever, Tom," I replied with a smile. "What can I get you?"

"Just the usual," he said with a smile. I started mixing his drink, enjoying the familiarity of the routine.

As I handed Tom his drink, I noticed Carly, another regular, waving at me from across the bar. I made my way over to her, dodging a group of people who were enthusiastically discussing the raffle.

"Hey, Carly," I greeted her. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to say hi!"

"Are you here alone?" I teased. "Is Mr. Wonderful still in the picture?"

Her lips curled with disgust. "No. Definitely not. Mr. Wonderful is an asshole. His new name is Mr. Cheater."

I raised an eyebrow in surprise. Carly was a sucker for smooth talkers and sharp dressers, but it seemed Mr. Wonderful had crossed the line. I did try to warn her. I didn't know the guy's real name, but I had seen him in the bar on several occasions with various women. "Ah, the classic tale of deceit. I'm sorry, Carly," I said, pouring her a glass of her favorite red wine without needing to ask.

"I just don't know why all men are such jerks." She sighed, accepting the wine with a thin smile.

"Hey, not all men," Tom piped up from his end of the bar, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

Tom was a good guy, but he was probably close to forty. He was nice but not the type that was going to pick up any of the young ladies that tended to flock to the bar. I didn't think he really tried. He was usually gone before the younger crowd showed up.

I kept busy, serving drinks and chatting with the guests. The fundraiser had rocked the bar. I hoped we were raising a lot of money. As the night wore on, the usual Friday night crowd began to pour in. The Hall transformed into a bustling club. The music was switched to whatever was popular now, including a lot of dance beats. The energy shifted as people danced and laughed, their worries melting away in the dim, pulsating lights.

Tom had made his exit and Carly seemed to have found a new guy. She was dancing and having a good time. I was glad she had found a man to help her forget about the last asshole. I just hoped it actually worked. Everyone deserved to be happy. I barely had time to breathe as orders came in. The promise of tips made the aching in my feet bearable. Every dollar counted.

Around midnight, the bar was packed, and I was in full swing, pouring drinks and making cocktails as fast as I could. The tips were good—really good. Maybe staying wasn't such a bad idea after all. I caught a glimpse of Phil across the room, giving me a thumbs-up. I nodded and smiled, my hands grabbing bottles and mixing drinks.

As I mixed a particularly complicated cocktail for a group of young women celebrating a birthday, I found myself daydreaming about Europe. The idea of wandering through the streets of Paris, sipping coffee at a quaint café, or lounging on a sunny beach in Greece kept me going. I just had to work up the nerve to book the ticket. I was making all these plans and counting on this trip, but I hadn't actually bought the ticket.

Yes, I was scared. It was embarrassing to be traveling alone. But I wasn't going to ask Karen, and all my other friends were busy with their men. There wasn't a single guy I knew that I wanted to spend a week with. I could barely stand a single night with them, let alone being stuck in a foreign country with them.

"Hey, Rylee!" a voice called out, snapping me back to reality. It was Daniel, another regular. "Can I get a beer?"

"Coming right up," I said, grabbing a bottle and popping the cap off before sliding it over to him.

"Thanks. You look like you could use one yourself," he joked.

I laughed. "Yeah, maybe once my shift's over."

"This place is crazy tonight."

"It's the leftover from the fundraiser earlier, "I told him.

"Did you guys make a good haul?"

I shrugged. "No idea. That's above my pay grade. I'm just the chick slinging drinks."

He chuckled and drifted away.

The Hall was buzzing with energy. Despite my earlier grumbling about having to stay late, I was starting to find my groove. The fundraiser was still going strong, and now the regulars and partygoers were filing in, ready to kick off their weekend. I watched as a group of young guys, probably just turned twenty-one, made their way to the bar. One of them leaned over the counter and flashed me a dazzling smile. Clearly, he thought he was cute. I supposed if I was a doe-eyed innocent, I might think he was. But I saw a cocky kid with too much money and zero responsibility. He was a rich kid. How did I know?

Because the rich kids always had this weird vibe like they expected something. Like they were used to having the world at their fingertips. He was wearing a Gucci watch and an outfit that cost more than I made in three months. The scent of his overpriced cologne wafted over, mixing unpleasantly with the smell of stale beer and cheap liquor.

"Hey, beautiful, what's your name?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"My name's Rylee, but you can call me the bartender that's too old to fall for your charm. What can I get for you boys?"

They laughed.

"We'll take a round of shots—tequila," the cheeky one said.

"Coming right up," I replied, setting up the shot glasses with a practiced hand. "First time at The Hall?"

"Yeah, we just turned twenty-one last week," another one piped up, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Well, happy birthday, boys. Here's to your first legal drinks," I said, lining up the shots and handing them out. They clinked their glasses and downed the tequila, wincing and laughing as the burn hit them.

"You're good at this," the flirty one said, tipping his glass in my direction. "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

I smirked, wiping down the bar. "Keeping guys like you in line. Now, you boys behave, and maybe I'll make you some fancy cocktails later."

They tipped me generously, a testament to that wealth I knew I recognized. I gave them a wink as they wandered off to find a table. I leaned into my role, my coy attitude and quick jokes earning me more tips and smiles from the patrons. Flirting was a natural state of mind for me. The more flirting, the bigger the tips. Despite feeling like I was falling behind in life, moments like this made me feel like I owned the bar.

As I poured drinks and chatted with customers, a stir went through the crowd. Heads turned, and people strained to see who had just walked in. Curious, I looked up from the bar and saw a tall figure making his way across the dance floor. The crowd seemed to part for him like the Red Sea. My heart skipped a beat.

I blinked, trying to make sure I wasn't seeing things. But there was no mistaking it. The sharp jawline, the confident stride, the piercing eyes—it was the guy from the magazine cover.

Simon Locke.

Holy shit.

What the hell is that asshat doing here?

He locked eyes with me, a smirk playing on his lips, and started walking over. My mind raced, memories of our conversation about him flooding back. Greedy, problematic, a loose cannon—that was the consensus. And now, here he was, in my bar looking at me like he just found his target.