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It takes me a few seconds, but finally, the mass of people moves enough that I can see. And my heart fucking stutters in my chest before going dead still.
There’s a woman with light blonde hair, short with side-swept bangs, and round black glasses behind the bar. She’s got on a black tank top, a hint of cleavage peeking out at the neckline. She’s talking to a regular, Richard, as she sets a fresh beer in front of him, her pixie nose crinkling as she flashes him a soft smile. She never stops moving, efficiently setting drinks up and down the bar, to Olivia and to customers, never missing a beat.
Unlike me.
I’ve been playing the opening chords to another original and missed my own entry. I blink, forcing my attention back to my guitar, play the start again, and sing.
But my attention never leaves the mystery woman.
I need to know her name.
I need to know who she is.
I need to know what the fuck she’s doing behind Hank’s bar.
I need to know where she’s been my whole life.
Okay, that might be dramatic, but there’s something about that sweet smile and the way she brushes her bangs back with delicate hands that makes me want to cut the set short and walk across the room to her. And I never do that. Hell, I’ve never even thought about doing that.
Until right now.
Thought I could see, but never saw a thing until I laid my eyes on you. Then the world exploded into view.
Usually, when I finish a set, I head to the back for a while to cool off. The lights are hot, making me a bit sweaty, and the crowd still feels entitled to a piece of me. Tonight, I can’t handle the delay and won’t risk that she might slip out the door. I wrap up my set, put Betty into her case, safe and sound behind the burlap stage curtain, and hop directly off the stage.
A few people surge forward as if we’re friends, but I bark out, “Move.” They recoil, somehow surprised that I’m not eager to high-five and fist bump them. But I’ve got more important shit to do.
As I’m coming up to the bar, I overhear Olivia, who’s not trying to be quiet at all. In fact, she’s speaking . . . loudly.
“Ooh, look out, girl. He’s on his way over. Remember, he’s everyone’s free pass.” She’s talking about me. Not to be arrogant, but I’ve heard that from women before. Honestly, I find it to be grossly disrespectful to their relationship with their partner, but that’s on them, not me. I’m not interested in shit like that.
What I am interested in is her.
She’s laughing at Olivia’s comments, and it’s a bright, bubbly sound. I have a twinge of jealousy that I wasn’t the one to make her laugh. Not that I’m a funny, laughs-a-minute sort anyway, but I want to capture that sound and listen to it late at night when the dark feels a little too endless and the bed a little too empty.
So I stick my hand out. “I’m Bobby Tannen.”
She wipes her hand on the towel stuck through her belt loop and shakes my hand. I feel a shock of electricity shoot up my arm the instant I touch her, but she seems more confused by my direct attention than anything.
“Willow Parker, the new bartender. You seem rather popular.”
An insult or a compliment? I’m not sure.
I shrug, not sure what to say. Olivia is looking between us like the ping pong match of the century has just started. I raise one brow expectantly, silently telling her to get lost. Olivia taps her tray against the bar. “Oops! Let me check on table thirteen really quick. I’ll be back for those drinks, Willow.” She scoots off but must throw a glance back because Willow glares off to my left. I’m instantly hungry to have her eyes back on me.
Willow sets a large glass of ice water on the bar in front of me, which I drink gratefully. “Thanks.” I want to ask about a hundred questions at once, but what comes out is, “How in the hell did you get Hank to let you behind his bar?” My voice is deep and rough, nothing I can do about that, but the growl makes it sound accusatory. Maybe unconsciously, I mean for it to be because curiosity about her sudden appearance is eating me up inside.
She flinches, dark lashes fluttering a little too fast behind those owl-like lenses.
What the hell, man? Fix it.
I flash the smile that’s gotten me out of trouble for most of my life and am rewarded with a hesitant, slow-motion version of one of her soft smiles.
“Right place, right time, I guess,” she answers without giving anything away.
A voice calls out ‘bartender’, and she moves away without another word but gives me the first view of her lower half. She’s wearing denim shorts that sit low on her hips, exposing a small sliver of her midriff I’d like to trace with my tongue. Her legs are shapely and tan, ending in black and white Nikes that have seen better days.
