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“Yeah, neither of my parents really drank a whole lot. My grandfather, either. This was his place.”

“What made him open it if he didn’t drink?”

“I’m not really sure. I only know what Old Man Whitaker has told me.”

“Old Man Whitaker?” I arch a brow. “He sounds like a wise old guide in a movie.”

Again, Maverick laughs. Does he know that, when he smiles, he lights up the entire room around him?

“That would be an apt description if I’ve ever heard one. He and my grandfather grew up together. He said that, when he was courting my grandmother, there weren’t a lot of places in town to eat. So he decided to open his own fine dining once they were married. Unfortunately—according to my wise old guide—he was a terrible cook.”

“Oh no!” I exclaim, trying so hard not to completely lose it as I imagine a man I’ve never even seen a picture of, realizing his plan was about to go sideways.

“Oh yes,” he replies with a laugh. “My gran did not want to cook for an entire town, so he turned it into a bar instead.”

“Glad it didn’t go to waste.”

“Yeah, definitely not.” He’s quiet for a moment, and from his distant gaze, I imagine he’s lost in the past. Is he thinking about his grandfather? His own path? “I always wanted to be a soldier. There was never really anything else for me.”

“What made you get out of the military?”

He takes a deep breath, then stands and raises his shirt.

My mouth dries, attraction searing me as I catch sight of tan skin stretched over taut muscle. The guy may not be a soldier anymore, but he’s certainly built like one.

Shirt up to his chest, he turns and shows me his back.

“Oh, Maverick.” I push up from my stool and move closer so I can get a better view of his back. There is not a single inch of it not marred by scarring. Burns that disappear down into the waistband of his dark jeans, then climb all the way up to his shoulder blades. On the right side, the scarring continues up, slipping over the top of his shoulder. I reach forward without thinking and brush the tips of my fingers along the raised scars.

Maverick jolts beneath my touch, so I quickly withdraw my hand, my cheeks heating.

“What happened?” I ask.

Slowly, he lowers his shirt, then takes his seat again, all without meeting my gaze.

I take my seat again, too, hoping to diffuse some of the tension by giving him space. Because, whoa, buddy, you could cut it with a knife right now. Is that because he feels this connection, too? Or am I imagining it?

“When I was overseas, a civilian house caught fire while we were on patrol. I rushed in to pull the family out. The man was already unconscious, and the woman was trapped behind a wall of flame that separated the main living area from a bedroom, a baby in her arms.” He stops and clenches his jaw. “There were two younger kids in the living room. They were screaming and crying, so I grabbed them first. As I was leaving—” He stops speaking for a moment and closes his eyes, carefully re-gathering himself before starting up again. “The place blew behind me. I was thrown forward with the kids, and everyone inside died.”

“Oh, Maverick,” I repeat my earlier statement, though it does nothing to show the level of horror and sadness I feel at his words.

“The two kids I pulled out lived.” He takes another bite of spaghetti, then washes it down with his water. “Turns out, the dad had made enemies with some nasty people, and it was a hit on the family.”

“You saved two of them,” I say softly.

“Logically, I know that I couldn’t save them all. My team stayed outside to watch the perimeter because it was an area known to have a lot of hostiles. But when I woke in that hospital bed, all I could think about was how I failed.” He looks down at his plate and twirls more spaghetti onto his fork. “Anyway, I suffered multiple broken ribs, severe internal bleeding, and third-degree burns on most of my back. It took years of surgeries to get it to where it is now.”

“I’m sorry, Maverick.” It’s such an understatement for what I’m feeling right now. Especially knowing just how kind-hearted this man is. It may be hidden behind walls he’s built to protect himself, but Maverick Fargo is a man who cares about others.

“It happened. It’s over.” He continues eating, and the quiet settles around us. As I eat, I let my mind run over all the things I now know about this man.

He doesn’t drink.

He wasn’t raised in church.

He is a soldier whose career was cut short after he nearly died saving two toddlers from a burning building.

With each piece of information that is revealed about him, I find myself more and more drawn to the man who pulled me out of the alley a few nights ago.