But something about the way he’s looking at me… makes it hard to lie.
So I exhale, slow and shallow. “My father,” I say, surprising even myself. “He was… suffocating.”
I clear my throat “But then I escaped to the Big Apple,” I nod, finishing the last of my drink and letting the buzz settle low and warm in my belly. “Straight into chaos. Noise. Sirens. Rent that costs a kidney and a pinky toe.”
He leans in, just a little. “That’s a hell of a leap. Most folks are runningfromthe city, nottoit.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug, eyes fixed on the way the bar lights glint off the rim of his glass. “Small towns can be just as loud—you just hear the noise in your own head instead. The city was... less personal.”
Grant doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel his eyes on me—measured, curious, like I’ve become the puzzle he wants to solve.
Grant laughs, but his gaze is steady. “You seem like someone who’s good at running. But bad at resting.”
That lands too close to home. I drop my gaze to my drink.
“Maybe,” I admit quietly.
Grant doesn’t speak. Doesn’t press. Just watches me like I’ve handed him a fragile thing, and he’s choosing—carefully—not to break it.
He leans in slightly, his voice lower. “You can tell a lot about someone by the way they show up when no one’s watching.”
I blink at him. That…was unexpected.
“And how exactly have I shown up, cowboy?” I ask, my voice softer now.
He smiles, slow and deliberate. “Like someone who wants to believe in something again but doesn’t quite trust herself to do it.”
Goddamn. I hate how much that hits. I hate how seen I feel.
“You’re annoyingly insightful,” I mutter, trying not to let it show how rattled I am.
“I’m a middle child. It’s my survival skill.”
That makes me laugh—actually laugh—and it feels good. Natural.
I finally meet his gaze again. “What about you, Grant Taylor? What’s your tragic backstory?”
He shrugs, eyes dropping to his drink, then back up to me. “My story’s a little quieter. Grew up too fast. Took on more than I should’ve. Lost some things I wasn’t ready to lose. Still figuring out who I am when no one’s looking.”
“Well damn. I was expecting something simple, like a tragic haircut, getting trampled by wild horses or a traumatizing rodeo incident.” The words flying out, before I can stop myself.
He lets out a low chuckle. “Nah, don’t break in wild horses anymore. Just stubborn women who talk too much and pretend they don’t want me to.”
Oh dear God.
And, oh look, the pulse between my legsdoeshave a heartbeat of its own.
I clear my throat, desperate for oxygen and dignity, squeezing my thighs together—a movement he seems to track—as I feel the blush rushing up my neck.
“Ha! Well…thank God for evolution,” I say, voice dry. “Because now you can skip the rodeo and just traumatize women directly.”
His eyes spark with something—amusement, interest,damnation,who knows—and I instantly regret giving him that much to work with.
He leans back a little, like he’s giving me space, but that grin? Thatgrinis still sitting on me like it pays rent.
God, he probably wasn’t even talking about me.
He probably just charms women into spontaneously combusting wherever he goes. Like a walking Southern biohazard.
