“Howler.”
“Listen, I know your flirting skills are rusty—”
Solomon snatches up his whiskey and brings it to his lips. “Dead and buried.”
“This is an excursion, a celebration. Your dick’s last resort.” Lowering his sunny voice, Howler leans in. Serious now. “Dude. You’ve atoned long enough.”
Yeah. He has.
He spent the first few years figuring out who he was without her. Now, what used to be love is duty. Guilt. Obligation. A hardscrabble stubbornness to put Serena first in death, because he didn’t in life.
“Serena would understand,” Howler says.
He grinds his molars and traces the wood grain of the bar top. He didn’t come here for a quick lay.
He’s here to do research, to help his best friend get their bar back together, and then it’s back to Chinook.
“How ’bout Goldilocks?”
With a grunt, Solomon slams his whiskey down and glares at his friend, ready to tell him to shut the fuck up, that they’ve been here all night, that they’ve got an early day tomorrow. But the wolfish smile on Howler’s face makes him spin on his stool.
There, in the middle of the bar, is a lone girl who’s made the floor her personal dance club.
He can’t help but stare. Dancing along to the croon of George Strait, she has no rhythm. She’s clapping off the beat, but still, she’s shaking her hips, swinging her long blond hair, and laughing like a gorgeous, dancing wild thing.
Damn beautiful.
His mouth goes dry. It feels like he just struck gold. The girl looks like it too.
Tossing his head back, Howler cackles and rubs his hands together. “She’s a hoot.”
“Don’t laugh,” Solomon orders and gives his friend a glare. “She’s having fun. Let her.” The girl’s in tune with the music, swaying with carefree abandon. Stem glass in her hand, wine sloshing over the rim and onto the floor, oblivious to the raised brows directed at her.
She’s not tall, but those legs. And those fucking eyes. Big, brown, and lined with a fringe of long, dark lashes.
She’s barefoot, uncaring about the dusty planks beneath her, the spilled beer, the crushed peanuts. Her black tank top dips, exposing the curve of her breasts. Her ripped jeans are practically painted on, showcasing her ass perfectly. She’s tan—probably a tourist. But a goddamn gorgeous one. She’s magnetic, drawing his gaze and holding it captive. He hasn’t stared at a woman like this since Serena. His wife’s face is a blur. But this girl’s isn’t. There’s something about her. A fun, flirty, carefree pull that has him aching to know her.
Women. Interaction. Aside from his mother and sisters, it’s been seven long years.
Serena’s voice whispers: It’s time, Solomon. Move your butt, you bearded fool.
But before he can stand, a pretty boy from the bachelor party in the corner saunters toward the girl. Solomon tracks him like a shark. He knows that look. Popped collar. Wolfish sneer. On the prowl. He’s scared off enough losers sniffing around his sisters to know this kid’s only interested in taking advantage of her.
Then, to his friends, the bachelor boy makes an obscene gesture to the girl’s backside. Without touching her, he traces her figure with his palms, pretends to grip her hips, and then thrusts his crotch in her direction.
Solomon sucks in a sharp breath, his blood boiling. His fingers curl around his whiskey glass, and his knuckles turn white.
“Chill, man.” Howler groans.
He slips off his stool.
Burying his face in his hands, Howler spins on his stool to face the bar. If the fists fly, he’s got plausible deniability.
Solomon draws himself up to full height and cocks a brow at the boy. All that’s needed. A look that says one more step and he’ll rip his fucking head off. Gulping hard, the boy tucks tail and retreats to his bachelor party.
Oblivious to her retreating suitor, the girl spies Solomon before he can back away, her attention halting him where he stands. High cheekbones, full lips, wide-set brown eyes that sparkle like dewy earth. He takes a breath in hopes of slowing the freight train rattle of his heart.
“Hi,” she says, the words devoid of any accent. She hops up on the balls of her feet, her toenails sparkly pink against bronze skin. She grasps his forearm, her voice hopeful. “You come to dance, mountain man?”
“I don’t dance,” he says, the words coming out gruffer than he means.
Behind him, Howler lets out an exhausted sigh, followed by dude.
Fuck. That was surly as hell.
Her pretty face creases in disappointment, those once sparkling eyes now dim. “Oh.”
He groans inwardly and scrapes a hand down his beard. What the fuck is his problem? She wants a jukebox and a two-step, and he sure as shit should be the man to give it to her.
“You want a drink?” he asks, rallying, praying he can keep her in his orbit a little longer. It’s unnatural. His voice. His offer.
She watches him from under those dark lashes, her chin dipped low. “Yes, please.” Her tone turns husky. Flirtatious.
Christ. He fixates on her lips. Pink as a glazed donut. Plump.
With the girl following after him, Solomon moves to the bar, ignoring how tight the crotch of his pants feels. “Wine?” he asks over his shoulder.
“What’re you drinking?”
“Whiskey.”
“Then same.”
The bartender wipes the lacquered wood surface with a rag and says, “Hey, boss. What you need?”
The girl glowers. “Oh sure. He says hello to you.”
“Two Blanton’s,” he says. “Neat.” As they wait for the whiskey, Solomon rests his hand on the counter so he can nab the tab before she can. A harsh suck of air. Solomon sees it the second realization hits her face. Her good time flatlined.
Her eyes widen, then narrow as her gaze lights on his wedding band. “Are you married?”
Fuck.
“No.” It’s all he says. All he can say.
She cranes her neck to look at Howler on his other side. In response, he raises his whiskey. “Scout’s honor.”
“C’mon,” Solomon suggests, wanting to explain. “You want some air? Let’s go out back.”
After a second of hesitation and a scrutinizing once-over, she nods. “Okay.” She arches a brow. “But I have mace.”
“I appreciate that.” He fights the urge to smile, liking her sass.
Whiskey in hand, he holds out an arm, gesturing for her to go first. His heartbeat a steady thump in his ears as she strides to her stool, gathers her purse, and slips on her heels, instantly gaining five inches.
Howler gives a thumbs up, and he scowls in return.
They step out onto the unlit back porch and descend the stairs. Fingers brushing close, breaths held, they wander into a forest of tall evergreens. The girl shivers and shrugs her blazer on to protect herself from the biting March wind. As they move deeper into the trees, the harsh rush of traffic is overtaken by the chirp of crickets. The Bear’s Ear bar may be on the outskirts of Nashville, but it’s still too city for Solomon’s liking.
“So,” she hedges, her brows drawn and a small frown playing on her lips. “You’re really not married? Because if you are, I’m not looking to be that girl. At all.”
The need to be honest fills him. Because here, in this unfamiliar bar with this strange girl, he feels like he can be himself.
It feels like a new beginning.
“No. I’m not. She’s been gone a long time.” He dips his chin, twirls the gold band around his finger. “It’s never felt like the right time to take it off.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Considering his admission, gauging whether he’s an asshole who’d lie about a dead wife.
“I get that. Moving on is hard.” Her soft, sad tone tells him she’s lost someone too.
“Where are you from?” he asks, searching for a way to fill the silence.
The second the words leave his lips, he curses himself. Cliché chitchat that has him wincing.
Fuck.
Howler’s right. He’s rusty as hell.