The bartender grins. “Coming right up, boss.”
Grant turns his body to me then, and the full force of his attention hits like a physical blow. His eyes are deep amber in the bar's dim lighting, crinkling slightly at the corners.
“Fancy meeting you here, Mia-not-from-around-here.”
“Are you followingmenow?” I ask, trying for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
“I own part of this place,” he says with a shrug. “Co-investment with my best friend Mason…so technically, yet again you're following me.” There’s a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, the beginnings of a smirk that feels more like a threat than a greeting.
I let out a laugh, just as the bartender returns with two electric blue cocktails garnished with what looks like cotton candy.
“Annie's special,” he says with a wink as he walks away.
I take a tentative sip and nearly choke. It's sweet at first, then hits with an alcohol punch that burns all the way down.
“Holy shit,” I sputter. “What's in this?”
“Family secret,” Grant says, taking a much more confident sip of his own. “Careful. These have a reputation for leading to bad decisions.” he winks.
He’s leaning against the bar like sin incarnate, forearms resting on the wood, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that doesdangerousthings to my pulse.
He looks like he belongs in this bar, in this town, in this world.
That black button-up shirt molds to his torso like it was tailored for worship, the open collar revealing just enough tan skin to have my brain taking a lie-down. And the hat—thatwide-brimmed cowboy hat—casts a shadow over those smoldering brown eyes that are currently locked on me like a hunter who just spotted his prey.
Heat uncoils low in my belly, curling like smoke. My thighs press instinctively together. Every nerve in my body fires with acute awareness of him and I can't look away. The noise of the bar fades to background static and there's just him and me and this strange, undeniable pull.
I clear my throat. “You always look at strangers like you’re trying to figure out their tragic backstory?” I say without breaking eye contact from him.
Grant chuckles, low and warm. “Nah. Just the ones who walk in like a hurricane and pretend they’re just passing through.”
His voice is low and unhurried, but it lands like a punch. Right in the center of my carefully-constructed, sarcasm-plated armor.
My smile falters, just a breath. Just enough for him to see it.
I roll my eyes and take another sip of my drink, letting the burn stall the rising heat in my chest. “Well, aren’t you poetic,” I murmur. “Tell me, do you practice these lines in the mirror, or do they just fall out of that cocky mouth on instinct?”
Grant grins, all teeth and shameless confidence. “Instinct, sweetheart. It’s a gift. Can’t help it.”
He leans his forearms on the bar, turning just slightly toward me. The distance between us too small now. Intimate. Unwise.
I take another sip. “Well then, do you always flirt like you're trying to distract someone from asking real questions?”
That gets a flicker in his gaze—an almost-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Takes one to know one,” he says, deflecting like a pro. “Where you from, Mia?” His dark brown eyes burn through me as he studies my response.
Shifting in my seat, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the condensation trailing down the side of my glass, the way the bar stool squeaks beneath me when I cross one leg over the other. Not entirely comfortable, but not exactly ready to lie either.
“Cold Springs,” I say eventually, tracing the rim of my glass with one fingertip. “Small town. Mountains. The kind of place where everyone knows your middle name, your curfew, and your crush by fifth grade.”
Grant lifts a brow. “Cold Springs, huh? Sounds peaceful.”
“Peaceful if you’re a golden retriever,” I mutter. “Not so much if you're a girl with a brain, a smart mouth, and dreams that didn't involve marrying the quarterback and running the PTA bake sale.”
“What did you run from—Cold Springs or someone in it?”
My fingers tighten slightly around the glass, taken off guard by his line of questioning. The right thing to do here is laugh itoff. Make a joke. Pivot. Throw his question back in his smug, handsome face.
