99 Houses for His Love One for My Freedom novel Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Mrs. Harper had circled a quiet little bar on the corner of a cobblestone street–said it was cozy, mellow, and

served decent food at night.

Sounded like just what I needed.

I arrived around eight. A few warm lights, a soft playlist, and only a handful of patrons. Perfect.

I ordered a plate of bar bites–fried, salty, nostalgic–and a low–alcohol cocktail. Then I took a seat at the

bar and listened as the lounge singer crooned a smoky, bluesy number I vaguely recognized.

The bartender wiped down a glass before setting my drink in front of me, hesitating for a beat.

“You sure you wanna drink alone tonight?” he asked. “Never know what kind of trouble that invites.”

I gave him a dry smile and gestured to the pale–pink drink in front of me.

“This thing’s got less kick than a pineapple soda. Cut me some slack.”

He raised a brow, but eventually slid it over with a smirk.

I took a sip.

It was

-almost syrupy–with none of the fire I expected. But a few seconds later, the aftertaste hit me. Sharp. Sour. And weirdly… bitter.

I frowned and looked up. “What did you serve me?”

He pulled up the digital menu, scrolled all the way down, and grinned.

“You ordered our lowest–proof drink. It’s called ‘Life.”

I pushed the glass back toward him. “No wonder this place is half–empty. You’re serving philosophy instead of liquor.”

He chuckled, and I realized he wasn’t just the bartender–he owned the place too.

“Brutal,” he said, feigning a wince. “Right to the ego.

Still, the food was surprisingly good. I ate more than I expected and actually… enjoyed myself.

The bar stayed quiet.

Between bites, we chatted–about the town, the weather, the kinds of people who passed through. He asked what brought me here. I didn’t answer.

When I asked where I should visit, he suggested a few scenic spots just outside the city.

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“Great views. Forest trails. There’s even a lake. But you’ll need a car. Bus schedules are a nightmare.”

I sighed. Renting a car last–minute in peak season? Nearly impossible.

He noticed the hesitation in my expression and shook his head.

“I’ll take you,” he said casually, like it was no big deal.

I blinked. “Aren’t you working?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t you just say this place has no customers? I’ve gotta make money somehow.”

He took away my half–finished cocktail and replaced it with something darker, cooler–served with a slice of lemon.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Iced berry herbal tea,” he replied. “Something real. You looked like you needed it.”

The singer had long since wrapped up her first set. A soft Spanish ballad took its place, warm and unrecognizable.

I sipped my drink and listened.

The bartender turned his back to wipe down the counter–but in the reflection of the glass, I saw it:

He was watching me.

Chapter 8