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A draft snakes in as the door swings wide, carrying with it a shift in the atmosphere. Him. Texas Blackwood—the enigma in leather—strides into the den of vultures. His presence alone commands silence, a stillness that drowns out even the jukebox’s twang. His boots thud a steady beat as he approaches, each step measured, deliberate.
“Evening,” he says, his voice low but clear, cutting through the haze.
The local men bristle, their eyes darting between us, sizing up the newcomer who’d dared to intrude on their territory.
“Tex.” I nod curtly, busying myself with arranging the bottles behind the bar. His name tastes like whiskey on my tongue—smooth with a kick that lingers. “What can I get you?”
“Beer, if you don’t mind,” he says, resting his elbows on the bar, his sapphire eyes locking onto mine.
For a moment, everything else falls away—the leers, the snide remarks, the oppressive heat. There’s just him and the strange calm that comes over me.
“Coming right up,” I reply, but my hands betray me, fumbling slightly as I reach for a bottle.
“Thanks,” Tex murmurs, taking a sip, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a hint of a smile.
It’s enough to light a spark, one that dares to dance across the space between us despite the shadows that cling to our edges.
“Anytime,” I say, meaning it more than I should.
His gaze holds mine, and there’s something there—an understanding or maybe a challenge. I can’t quite tell, and it’s maddening.
“Jane,” Hank bellows, shattering the moment, “we ain’t got all night here.”
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.
