The ruddy-faced older man scoffs as I pull up a stool a few down from him and turn it so one elbow rests on the bar and I’m facing the door. Western decor fills the space, a wagon wheel chandelier, polished wood floors, and mason jar glassware. It may be just another a small-town bar, but the extensive updates give it an elevated sort of feel.
“Don’t know when you got so lippy,” he grumbles, dropping his pint glass away from his lips. “You used to barely talk to anyone. Now you’re bossing me around like a little tyrant all the time.”
Shiny, almost black hair swishes over Bailey Jansen’s tanned shoulders. Her back is to us as she bends down to pull glasses out of the small washing machine behind the bar.
“Got comfortable, I guess. And you could use some bossing, old man. Sitting here, harassing me every day.”
“I do no such thing. I’m perfectly nice to you. One of the only ones who is, I reckon.”
She spins now, white towel in hand, to point at her only customer in the quiet bar. “You are. And I consider you a friend, which is why I tell you every day you drink too damn much.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, dark eyes widening in surprise, like she didn’t hear me over the country music and hum of the dishwasher.
“If I stop, you’ll be out of work. And maybe even a friend.”
Gary is talking to her like he hasn’t noticed my presence, but she responds to him without looking away from me. “I can live with that, Gar.” She pauses, tongue darting out over parted lips.
Full, glossy lips.
“Beau Eaton. Nice to see you.”
The man turns, now alerted to my presence. “Well shit, that is Beau Eaton, isn’t it? Big fella, aren’t you?” Gary slurs and Bailey’s free hand darts forward to swipe his keys off the bar.
Gary’s eyes close and he groans. “Every fuckin’ day.”
“Yep. Every fuckin’ day.” She shoves them into her back pocket and then turns back to the washing machine where glassware has backed up. “Beau, what can I get you? Got anyone joining you? Probably want your favorite couch, yeah?”
I swallow and glance at the couch where my brothers, friends, and I enjoyed many a night out. It feels like a different version of myself sat there. The new Beau sits at the bar with the shy neighbor girl who wears a pair of acid-wash Levi’s better than anyone he’s ever seen.
“Nah, just me today. I’ll have whatever Gary here is having.”
“A Buddyz Best for the town hero!” Gary slaps his palm on the bar and I flinch. My eyes freeze on his weathered hand, flush against the polished wood of the bar top. When I lift my gaze, forcing myself to act casual, Bailey’s got her brows drawn tight, dark irises boring into my face as though she has me all figured out.
The flat smile I force onto my lips doesn’t seem to impress her. In fact, before she turns away to pour me a frothy pint, her head shakes subtly, like she’s disappointed.
My gaze trails over her body again, and I rack my brain to remember the last time I saw her. She’s always been sweet, shy little Bailey Jansen. Sadly, born into the least respected family in town. Her dad and brothers have dabbled in it all—drugs, prison, theft—and her mom took off years ago.
Worst of all, their land borders ours. I can see it from my house on the ranch, just on the other side of the river where I’ve put up a barbed wire fence so those assholes know where to turn back around.
But Bailey has always been different. I think I’ve always felt bad for her, always felt protective of her. The stares, the whispers. I imagine living in a small town where almost every resident has a story about your family must be fucking brutal. So, I’ve always been nice to her. I like her—have no reason not to.
She’s worked at the Railspur for years now, I just . . . can’t remember how many. Can’t decide if enough years have passed for me to notice the way her tank top lifts today, showing a peek of skin on her flat stomach. Or for me to think about the way her perfectly round breasts would fit so well in my hands.
“How long you been working here, Bailey?” I ask, watching her shoulders go a little tense when I do.
She clears her throat. “Just over four years. Started at eighteen.”
Twenty-two.
Fuck. I’m thirty-five, which means I was a teenager when—I brush the thought away and drop my eyes as she tosses a coaster down in front of me, followed by a pint of golden lager, white foam spilling over the edge.
“Thanks,” I grumble as I swipe a hand through my hair.
“Mm-hmm,” is all she says.
Bailey is the only person in town who hasn’t fallen all over herself to tell me what a hero I am since I got home. She works quietly and I try to keep my eyes from straying to her, wondering why she went from chatting happily to shutting down the moment I sat at her bar.
“MIA for two weeks, huh?” Gary starts in, and I see Bailey roll her eyes as she polishes a pint glass to a clear shine.
“Yup.” Oh, good. The only thing anyone talks to me about anymore.
“How was that?”
“Gary!” Bailey’s hands fall to her sides and a look of pure shock paints her face.
“What?”
“You can’t just ask things like that.”
“Why not?”
I can’t help it. I chuckle and decide to rescue Bailey from feeling like she needs to save me. “Real warm. Got a nice tan.”
The man narrows his eyes, movements a little sloppy. I wonder how long he’s been here since it’s barely after lunch and he’s clearly wrecked. “Heard you got burned. Not the tan I’d be hoping for.”
“Ga-ry.” Based on the way she enunciates his name, he’s truly horrified Bailey.
My palm slides across the bar, drawing her attention. “It’s okay. Everyone knows about the burns.”
She blinks, eyes suddenly looking a little glassy.
“Really, I’d rather people shoot straight than kiss my ass or tiptoe around me. Why do you think I’m hiding out here in the middle of the day?”
“Because Bailey is the best bartender in town!”
She snorts, lips tipping up as she goes back to polishing a glass. I try to remember if I’ve ever really seen her smile. I’m not sure I have. She’s always busy trying to blend into the background, and I’m only ever here when it’s busy. I don’t even know if I’ve ever properly heard her voice, until now. The gentle, melodic tone to it is almost soothing.
I’m sick of people talking to me, but it strikes me that listening to Bailey talk might now be so bad.
The first sip of my beer goes down cold and refreshing. I sigh, feeling a weight come off my shoulders in the presence of the town drunk and the town pariah.
I feel a kindred spirit to them right now, a misfit in my own home.
“Third-degree burns on my feet,” I announce, since bluntness seems to be the theme here today. “Skin grafts.”
“S’okay. You can find some girl with a weird foot fetish who will love that shit.”
“Jesus Christ, Gary. No more booze.” Bailey props her hands on the bar and drops her head with a groan.
“So long as your dick is okay.” He waves his hand up and down my body. “Face looks fine, wouldn’t you say, Bails? You’ll be alright, kid. You’ll find someone to love ya.”
Bailey’s gaze wanders over my features curiously, a warm blush painting her cheeks as she softly replies with, “Yeah,” and then blinks away.
Her eyes, that one little word, it . . . makes my blood pump faster. It makes me feel something.
My throat bobs as I swallow the dryness in my mouth, trying to push that moment away.
Then I take another sip and swipe a hand over my stubbled chin. “Love is the last thing I need. But this beer is really hitting the spot.”
And maybe if I drink enough of it, I’ll be able to sleep for more than a few hours tonight.
Chapter Two: Bailey
It’s been two weeks since Beau Eaton walked into my bar in the middle of the day. Two weeks since I took one look at him and almost dropped the glass in my hand. He’s hard to miss with his broad shoulders and tall, well-built frame, long legs that have him a head above most men who walk through that door. Light brown hair, a little too long, flops over his forehead, the perfect frame for silver-gray eyes. Even looking a little unkempt the way he does right now. Beau Eaton is fucking hot.
And hot is one thing, but Beau is nice too. And funny.
A true triple threat—or at least he was.
He’s never treated me like I’m wearing a scarlet letter on my chest, even when others have. I really only know him from the bar, but he’s never held my family’s reputation against me. He’s always offered kind words, a polite touch on my elbow, and a good tip at the end of the night.
But he’s still the town prince, and I’m still the town trash.
I’m the bartender and he’s the hero.
He’s an Eaton, and I’m a Jansen.
And yet, he’s here every damn day since the afternoon he walked in here looking like a caged animal who broke free.
Here every damn day drinking with fucking Gary.
The first day started out sweet enough. He was endearing if I’m being honest. But for the past two weeks, his presence has slowly morphed from light to dark, gathering itself into an ominous storm cloud.
It’s getting to where he’s making everyone around him uncomfortable. You can feel the electricity in the air, like lightning ready to strike.