Well, damn.
He's devastating in that quiet way that doesn't need to announce itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, with watchful hazel eyes that catch the bar's dim light. Not conventionally handsome. He has too many hard edges for that. But he’s magnetic in a way that makes it hard to look away.
I take in the details: how his black t-shirt stretches across his chest, the controlled strength in his movements, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. A jagged scar traces a thin line near his temple, disappearing into his dark hair. Something about him radiates danger and competence in equal measure.
He's nothing like the cookie-cutter deputy my father keeps pushing on me—all polish, no substance. This man looks like he's weathered storms and come out stronger.
I catch myself staring at his mouth—the slight curve that suggests he's used to getting what he wants. Something hot and unexpected flares in my core, a pull of attraction I haven't felt in longer than I care to admit.
The realization hits me with unsettling clarity: I'm drawn to him. A complete stranger in a backwoods bar, and my body's already betraying me with a rush of heat that has nothing to do with the whiskey.
“Wasn't trying to save you." His smile deepens, revealing a hint of dimple that should be illegal. "But it seemed like a shame to let you drink alone.”
Maybe I like drinking alone.” The words come out sharp and defensive, even as I reach for the proffered whiskey and lift it to my lips. It slides down easily, bathing my throat with golden heat.
He tilts his head, studying me with dangerous interest as he settles onto the barstool next to mine. My whole body is suddenly aware of him—the clean scent of his soap and leather and something darker underneath, causing heat to pool low in my belly.
“Maybe you do,” he says finally, a smile still playing on his lips. “But you don't look like you're enjoying it much. You're just good at making yourself do it.”
Rude. And far too observant.
Two can play at this game. I meet his gaze deliberately this time. “You don't know anything about what I enjoy.”
“You're right.” He shifts closer, and my body betrays me by leaning into his heat. “I don’t know what you enjoy. Yet.”
Thatyethangs between us, loaded with promise.
His eyes darken, his gaze dropping to where I’m gripping the glass. “Something’s on your mind. Want to talk about it?”
I take another deliberate sip of the whiskey. “No offense, but I came here specifically to avoid talking about it.”
“Fair enough.” He lounges back, all casual grace and coiled strength. His t-shirt pulls across broad shoulders, and I catch myself staring at the flex of his forearms as he lifts his drink to his full lips. “What would you rather do instead?”
Warmth crawls up my neck as his gaze tracks the movement of my throat when I swallow. I meet his gaze, forcing myself to hold it. “You’re trouble.”
He doesn't deny it. Instead, he leans in slightly, and I unconsciously mirror the movement. “Yet you don't seem like a woman who minds a little trouble.”
I shouldn’t react to that, but his deep rumble ignites a rash of goosebumps over my skin, betraying me. My pulse kicks up, a reckless beat that echoes the unspoken tension stretching between us.
His fingers brush mine as he reaches for the drink the bartender sets before him. My skin tingles where he touched me, and I instinctively pull away, my heart racing.
He raises the tumbler to his lips and I notice the tiny scars lining his knuckles, making me wonder what kind of troublehe’sseen.
“I don’t mind trouble, but I don't do complications,” I tell him, but I don't move away when his knee brushes mine. “I avoid them like the plague.”
“Who said anything about complications?” His fingers trace the rim of his glass, and I can't stop staring at those hands. Big. Rough. Capable.
I bet he could unscrew a rusted engine bolt with just his fingers.
Not helping, George.
“Maybe I just want to see you smile or know what you sound like when you laugh.” His voice drops lower. “Maybe I want to know what other sounds I can draw out of you.”
Dear God, he knows how to deliver a line. And, yeah, I’m falling for it like a drunk stepping off a curb in six-inch heels—not that I own shoes that tall. Battered cowboy boots are more my style.
“You're very sure of yourself.”
His smile turns wicked. “Maybe that’s because I know what I want.”
