Waverly high-tails away from me across the bar, her golden ponytail swishing behind her. She’s in a sage green dress tonight, the fabric dancing around her thighs, while leather boots cling to her calves.

My nostrils flare as I watch her leave, sucking in a sharp breath. Why is it always so hard to watch that young woman walk away from me? Why does it feel so wrong?

She’s too young for you, asshole, a voice mutters in my head. It’s my voice, because I’ve been telling myself the same thing for months. It’s been one hell of a long, frustrating summer.

But Waverly is too young, too sweet, too...