Page 5

He slides off his stool, saunters over, and leans one elbow on the bar next to me like we’re old friends.

“You look like you could use some company. Let me buy your next one.”

“I’m good, thanks.” I take another sip, eyes on the glass.

“Come on. What’s a beautiful woman like you doing drinking alone in a place like this?”

I finally glance at him. “Enjoying the quiet.”

He chuckles, undeterred. “Quiet’s overrated.”

I set the glass down. “I just want to be alone tonight,” I say, politely.

His smile doesn’t falter. “Playing hard to get, I see.”

Before I can open my mouth to shut him down harder, a deep baritone cuts through the jazz like a blade.

“The lady said she wants to be left alone.”

I turn to my right.

A figure emerges from the darker end of the bar, where the lighting dips low. I can’t make out his face, but his frame alone is enough to command attention.

He’s huge. Broad shoulders, solid build, the kind of presence that fills space without trying. The dim light catches just enough to outline him, but not enough to reveal him.

Daddy’s boy straightens, smirking. “And who the hell are you?”

“The guy who’ll have you thrown out of this bar, and every other decent one in the state, if you don’t stop disturbing her.” He’s not yelling. He doesn’t have to.

The idiot laughs, but it’s thin. “You can’t do that.”

The mountain tilts its head. “Wanna bet?”

He lifts two fingers toward the bartender, a subtle signal. The bartender glances over, nods once, and reaches for the phone under the counter.

Daddy’s boy’s smirk vanishes. He looks between us, mutters something under his breath that sounds like “whatever,” then scrambles off his stool and disappears into the crowd toward the back.

I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head as I watch the guy practically flee.

“Well,” I murmur, lifting my glass slightly, “that was fast.”

I turn back to my rescuer, and now that he’s stepped fully into the warm amber light of the bar, I nearly forget how to breathe. He’s not just big, he’s built like he could bench-press a yacht. Broad shoulders stretching the charcoal suit, thick forearms, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. One is a deep, stormy blue, like the ocean. The other is warm hazel, flecked with gold, catching the low light and turning almost amber. I’ve never seen anything like it up close. They’re locked on me, unreadable, and suddenly I realize I’ve been staring too long.

I clear my throat, heat creeping up my neck. “I, uh… guess I owe you a thank you.”

He shrugs one shoulder, never breaking eye contact. “No means no.”

I detect an accent in his voice, but I can’t quite place it. Eastern European, maybe. Russian?

“Yeah,” I say, letting out a small, dry laugh. “Some men still haven’t gotten the memo.”

He shakes his head once, a faint grimace crossing his face like it’s a shame. Then he turns to the bartender. “Vodka, neat. And another of whatever the lady’s having.”

“You don’t have to—”

He just nods at the bartender, who’s already moving. When the fresh glass of cabernet slides in front of me, I murmur another quiet “Thanks.”