No End to the Start
Language: en
The next time I saw Zane, I was a cocktail waitress in his bar. He stepped in smoothly, defusing a tense situation with a drunk customer for me. His presence was an immediate, silencing authority. "Thanks," I said, my voice carefully neutral. There was no awkwardness, no fumbling shame. Just a polite, professional distance between us. Everything was as it should be. A moment later, his fingers brushed against mine, his hand closing around my own just like he used to. "Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that I once lived for. "Do you hate me?" I gently pulled my hand away. A…