“Refill?” I ask the two guys at the far end finishing their beer. I hope they say yes. I don’t like this place when it’s too quiet. Too empty. Especially when I’m closing.
“Yes, ma’am. This round’s on me,” one of them says, handing me his card.
I smile. “Be right with you.” I fill up their drafts to the brim and place the glasses carefully in front of them. “The next one’s on me, boys.”
They lift their glasses with a grateful nod, and there’s a sudden shift in the air. A pull in my chest. It’s raw and sends a toe-curling chill through me.
I turn to look at the door, but there’s no one there. It’s like I’m seeing things—or feeling things that aren’t real.
Like I did for a brief moment back at the airport because of Willow’s dumb cliché movie reference.
I shake it off and move to another customer with a glass half full, leaning on my elbows. “Too strong for ya?”
“You tryin’ to get me drunk?”
I smile. “Is it working?”
The old man with kind eyes laughs with a blush. “I’ll let ya know.” He takes another sip, returning to his newspaper.
I wave to the high-top waiter closing with me, letting him know I’m stepping outside for a minute. Then I swipe up the carton of cigarettes and a lighter from behind the bar and step out.
It takes a few tries, but I finally light the damn thing. Placing it between my lips, I inhale slowly.
And there’s that ghost of a feeling again that someone’s watching me.
My skin tingles as I turn and lock eyes with him.
Stepping toward me in dark jeans, a white shirt, and silver buckle. The man who asked for a day and left me waiting.
Wilder.
He lifts the cigarette from between my fingers and brings it to his mouth. After one drag, he flicks it aside.
Playfully, I take out another one. A challenge in my eyes. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t let me light it before pulling it from my lips. “What does it look like?” he asks, holding up the unlit cigarette with a perked brow. “Sensed trouble and came running.”
My heart flips, but I force it steady. He’s come for me before. And he’s left before, too.
I smirk with a nod. “Well then”—I press the pack against his warm chest—“crisis averted. You can go home.”
I release, and he catches the pack just as I turn and walk back into the bar.
Wilder follows, taking an empty seat at the end, his eyes on me like I’m the only one in the room as I check on my few customers.
I fill a glass of ice water and set it in front of him. “You’re on the wrong side of the country, cowboy.”
“I’m exactly where I want to be. Thanks for the water.” I meet his eyes again for a moment. That deep blue steady, like he was memorizing me. Like I might disappear if he blinks.
“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice soft despite wanting to stay strong.
“Because I haven’t been able to breathe all week,” he says roughly.
My pulse flutters, but I frown because maybe he doesn’t realize that I haven’t either. “That sounds terrible.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I know. It’s not fair. But if you give me a chance to explain—”
“Hey, sweetheart, next one’s on you, right?” It’s the two guys from the opposite side of the bar.
