No End to the Start

Summary

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.