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Together, we step out into the cool morning air, ready to face whatever comes our way.
CHAPTER 2
JANE
The neon sign flickers above the bar, a stuttering beacon in the dusky evening. I push through the heavy, wooden door, the hinges groaning like tired bones.
“Hey, Janie! How ‘bout a smile for us tonight?” hollers one of the regulars, Dale, a toothless grin splitting his weathered face as he slaps down a grimy dollar bill.
I force my lips into a semblance of a smile, pouring whiskey like it’s penance, feeling the weight of their stares.
“Keep your shirt on, Dale,” I say, sliding the glass his way, my voice threaded with mock sweetness. “Wouldn’t want you to get too excited,” I add under my breath, my hands steady but the burn in my chest flaring bright and hot.
The door creaks again, and a gust of cooler air sweeps through the haze. He saunters in, a silhouette cut from the night—Texas “Tex” Blackwood. The dim light catches on the edges of his rugged frame, carving him out of the darkness. He’s all broad shoulders wrapped in black leather, and when he steps into the light, those intense blue eyes sweep the room.
“Evenin’, Tex,” murmurs Sam from the end of the bar, his voice tinged with respect that borders on envy.
“Sam,” Tex acknowledges with a nod, his voice low and gravelly, like the rumble before a storm. He perches on a stool at the far end of the bar.
My heart does a traitorous little skip, even as I tell myself it’s just the change in pace, nothing more. I’m wary of men, especially ones that come wrapped in mystery and motorcycle leather. But there’s something about him, something that makes me want to unravel his story thread by thread.
“Whiskey, neat,” he says, his gaze finding mine across the room. It’s a look that feels like a challenge, like a promise, and I can’t help but answer it as I stride over to take his order.
“Comin’ right up,” I reply, reaching for the good bottle because something tells me he’s not the type to stomach the cheap stuff. As I pour, I catch the flicker of appreciation in his eyes, and my pulse dances to a rhythm I thought I’d long since forgotten.
“What brings you back into town?” I ask, leaning against the bar, my arms crossed protectively over my chest.
“Passing through,” he answers, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.
“Make sure it stays that way,” I warn, half-joking, half-serious. In this town, nothing good ever comes from sticking around too long.
“Wouldn’t dream of overstaying my welcome,” he assures me, his voice smooth as the whiskey he sips.
There’s a hum in the air, electric and alive, and I know Tex Blackwood is trouble. The kind that’s hard to resist, the kind that leaves a mark. But I’ve got enough scars, and I’m not looking for any new ones.
“Good,” I say, turning away to tend to the other customers, letting the mask of indifference slip back into place. Yet, somehow, I feel his eyes on me, and despite the noise and the smoke and the endless cycle of drinks, I’m acutely aware of the space he occupies. It’s going to be a long night.
“Hey, Jane,” drawls one of the regulars, Carl, a burly man with a belly that strains against his shirt buttons. “How ‘bout you and me finally make some magic tonight?”
I pour him another drink, my lips twisting into a practiced smile. “You couldn’t handle me, Carl,” I quip back, sliding the glass across the bar to him with a thud that punctuates my refusal.
Laughter erupts from his cronies, and something inside me hardens a little more. The town’s whispers about me, they’ve become as familiar as the lines on my palms—Jane Everly, the girl too proud, too cold. They don’t know jack about the walls I’ve built, the steel in my spine forged by their relentless advances.
I’m wiping down the counter when Tex signals for another round. His presence is a beacon, drawing sidelong glances and fanning the flames of curiosity among the patrons. I feel it too, this gravitational pull, but I tamp it down, remind myself that attraction is a luxury I can’t afford.
“Another whiskey?” I ask, my voice neutral, betraying none of the disquiet he stirs within me.
“Please.” His gaze lingers, and there’s an undercurrent there, something that feels like seeing the first star at dusk—promising, distant, untouchable.
“Men around here not your type?” he probes, leaning on the bar, the sleeves of his jacket pulling taut over biceps that speak of both power and restraint.
“Men around here are nobody’s type,” I retort, pouring his drink with a steady hand. “They think a woman behind the bar is fair game. A trophy to be won.” I glance up, meeting those intense blue eyes. “I’m no one’s prize, Tex.”
“Never said you were,” he replies, voice low and even, his eyes holding mine in a silent challenge.
“Good.” I push the glass towards him, my heart picking up its pace. But I refuse to let it show. “Enjoy your drink.”
I retreat to the far end of the bar, taking refuge in the mundane task of restocking glasses. My mind, though, refuses to stay put, flitting to Tex and the uninvited warmth that blooms in my chest. No, I scold myself, I’ve seen his kind before—charming, dangerous, gone with the morning fog.
