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I tear my attention from Tex, serving up the next round to the ravenous pack. But the spark remains, stubborn and bright, refusing to be snuffed. And as much as I try to ignore it, I know it’s only a matter of time before it catches fire.
The bar’s air hangs heavy with the scent of spilled beer and fried food. I wipe down the counter with a ragged cloth, my movements mechanical, trying to focus on anything but the electric presence of Texas he leans against the far end of the bar.
“Seems like this place could use a touch of southern charm,” Tex drawls, his voice a warm rumble over the din of rowdy patrons.
“Charm’s not really on the menu here,” I quip back, unable to stop a half-smile from tugging at my lips.
My eyes flicker to him despite my resolve, drawn to the way his leather jacket stretches across broad shoulders, to the hair that frames his face with careless intent.
“Then maybe I’ll settle for a beer and some good company,” he counters, tilting a stool out with his boot, an unspoken invitation hanging between us.
“Company’s subjective,” I admit.
“Never figured you for a cynic,” he observes, peering at me from under thick lashes, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.
“Life in the Tin Cup’ll do that to a girl,” I say, attempting to deflect with humor, but the bitterness seeps through.
I pour another drink for a regular, movements sharp, a shield raised against the vulnerability that his proximity provokes.
“Maybe you just need the right kind of trouble to shake things up,” he suggests, his gaze piercing.
“Trouble’s the last thing I need,” I mutter, my voice barely audible over the jukebox blaring a tune about love gone wrong.
I steal a glance at him, finding his blue eyes locked on mine, and something akin to recognition or is it desire?
“Sometimes, trouble finds you,” Tex says, his tone laced with a challenge that sets my nerves alight.
“Or I’m just a magnet for it,” I concede, my voice a whisper of resignation.
Internally, I scold myself, my thoughts a whirlwind of caution and burgeoning want, ‘don’t be a fool. Men like him are just passing through. They take what they want and leave nothing but dust and heartache.’
“Shame,” he murmurs, pulling me from my reverie. “I’ve always been partial to magnets.”
“Is that right?” I ask, my defenses warring with the pull of his grin, the easy confidence he exudes without even trying.
“Absolutely,” he confirms, eyes never leaving mine.
The tenuous grip I have on my composure slips. He’s danger in a leather jacket, and I’m playing with fire. But it’s too late, the spark has been struck, and despite my better judgment, I can feel the slow burn of attraction creeping up on me, relentless and seductive. And as I look into Texas Blackwood’s eyes, I know I’m standing on the edge of something wild and reckless, and I’m not sure I have the strength to resist the fall.
The clink of glass bottles and the low hum of rowdy conversation draw me away from him. But tonight, it’s like every sound is amplified, reverberating through my bones with each heartbeat. The scent of spilled beer and whiskey lingers in the air, mixing with the headier notes of leather and musk that seem to follow Texas wherever he moves.
“Another round, darlin’?” His voice is a warm drawl over the din.
Picking up a bottle, I walk toward him, and my fingers brush his briefly—a jolt of electricity courses through my body. I pull away, hoping the tremble in my hands goes unnoticed.
“Sure you can handle it, cowboy?” I quip, aiming for casual, but there’s a quiver in my voice betraying my growing unrest.
“Never been one to back down from a challenge,” he replies, a smirk playing on his lips.
I force a laugh, keeping busy by wiping down the bar, though the rag in my hand might as well be sandpaper for all the roughness catching in my chest. With each pass, I steal glances at him, taking in the rugged line of his jaw, the way his hair curls just at the collar of his jacket.
“Tell me, Jane.” He leans forward, elbows on the bar. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Surviving,” I answer before I can stop myself, honesty slipping through my guard.
The word hangs between us, heavy and revealing.
“Looks like more than surviving to me,” he observes, his tone softening. “Looks like you’re fighting a war no one knows about.”
