Page 6 of Run to Me

“Water.”

I shake my head and snag a bottle from the fridge. Some days, he orders a drink and food. Others, he sips on water until closing. And I often wonder if he doesn’t like being at home alone. If he’s ever alone without a different woman in his bed most nights.

To my surprise, Brody leaves after finishing his water, and the conversation drifts from football back to the mayor. They’ll ping-pong back and forth between the two subjects all night, and I’ll only halfway pay attention.

“A mayor should be reliable,” one man muses.

“A mayor should be sober,” another guy says, lifting a pint of beer to his thin, wrinkled lips.

“I nominate Jensen,” Tom declares, banging a meaty fist on the wood.

Everyone goes silent, then a chorus of voices erupts with exclamations like “great idea” and “why didn’t we think of that before” and “the right man for the job.” Meanwhile, I’m standing in front of them, wide-eyed, with my stomach at my feet. Beads of sweat gather on my neck, and I pray for none of them to speak either of the magic words, sure to seal my fate.

Of course it’s Tom, the leader—the man with a ring of white hair shaped like the donut on his shop’s sign—who dooms me when he hits the secret passwords to gain full access to my brain. “We need you, Jensen. You’d be perfect.”

Need.

Perfect.

I swallow my instinct to grant their request for a savior and force out an appeasing response. “I’ll think about it.”

They congratulate each other as if they won the political lottery. Thankfully, the conversation returns to the matter of who should coach football.

Javi warned me not to let them talk me into anything. My insightful friend knows me better than most people, and he’s aware the lack of town leadership bothers me. Walford’s needs aren’t being met, and I have the power to rectify the situation.

You see, I’m a resolute man. And resolute men appreciate resolution. I like to see things through to the end, no matter if that end results in a schedule, a pattern, an expectation to be met, or a finite outcome. Words such as pending and open-ended and interim are like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. The desire to make other people’s lives less complicated and find solutions drives me forward, and my only acceptable stopping point is always perfection.

As a kid, I cared about the orderly state of my room and being the perfect son. As a teen, I strove to be the best football player and teammate. When I was eighteen and my brother, Jake, was fifteen, my parents died. I became his guardian and checked out books on parenting and finances at the local library so I could keep him on a successful path. Failure in any aspect of my life isn’t an option.

I recognize that my perfectionism masks a crippling fear of disappointing people. My troubles run deep, and I take great pains every day to combat them and keep them hidden from everyone, including my brother and friends.

Only one person knows the true depths of my fears, but she cast me out of her life when I profoundly disappointed her. So color me surprised when that very woman storms through the door of my bar like she’s on a warpath.

Hello, my elusive little birdie.

Maisy wedges herself between two gentlemen and slaps a hand on the bar like she doesn’t already have my undivided attention. “We need to talk.”

Need.

These are the first words she’s spoken to me in twelve years, eight months, and twenty days. I battle the urge to close my eyes and soak in the sound of her voice as it travels from my ears to the tips of my toes. It’s a little bit deep. A little bit husky. But the most accurate word to describe her low tone is sultry.

Matching her indifference, I sling the rag over my shoulder and fold my arms across my chest. “So talk.”

Huffing, she aims her eyes at everything but me, as if the sight of me will burn her retinas. “In private.”

I hum and rub my beard, assessing her. “My mother taught me never to go anywhere alone with a stranger.”

My petty comment sets her on fire as intended. And damn, how I love her fire. I adore the faint blush on her cheeks when she’s happy or a little embarrassed. But when she’s pissed? They turn a deeper shade, a muted magenta like the hue in her colorful curls. Even with the permanent scowl on her pixie face, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Tonight, nothing stands in way of my eyes drinking her in. Of imagining all the fantasies I can turn into reality if I ever get my hands on her delectable body. While her height may have stalled when she hit the five-foot mark, her tits and ass did not get the memo to stop growing.

But her looks aren’t even what I admire most when I think of her, which I do daily. The friend I remember and greatly miss has a sweet smile, a caring heart, and a wry sense of humor. She’s strong, fiery, and loyal to a fault. To me, she’s more than the pretty face and sinful curves the rest of the world admires.

To me, she’s the incomparable Maisy Donovan—thief of a young boy’s heart.

“Forget it,” she mutters before blowing out the door like the little cyclone she is. Because I’m weightless in her vicinity, I’m sucked into her powerful vortex and follow her to the silver Toyota parked across the street.

“Maisy,” I say, catching up with her.