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“Nope,” I say, popping the P a little bit. “Just . . . exploring.”
He nods as if he understands. “Sometimes it takes getting lost to find yourself.”
I stare at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. His response was deeper than I was expecting.
“Well, I needed a pick-me-up after the week I've had, and the coffee shop closes at three, so.” I hold out one hand, palm up in some half-shrug move.
I take a sip, letting the mint settle on my tongue for a moment. I glance up at the bartender, who's currently bracing himself against the bar top in front of me.
My brows scrunch in confusion. “Why do they close so early? Don't people in Rosewood drink coffee after three o'clock?”
The side of his mouth hooks into a smirk. “Coffee takes first shift, beer is on second, and tequila is on the third shift in Rosewood.”
I laugh, the sound laced with both humor and surprise. “Well, I'll keep that in mind.”
He taps the bar twice and pushes off. “Holler if you need somethin'.”
“Will do,” I murmur.
He meanders over to the other side of the bar, and I let my attention drift to the big TV on the wall. It's muted, but the closed captioning is on, so I can read everything they're saying. It's some kind of game show that I've never heard of before, but it seems entertaining.
It's the perfect kind of distraction I needed tonight. The TV at the motel room isn't working properly, so it only gets four fuzzy channels. They said it would be fixed by Friday, but hopefully, I'll be at Magnolia Lane by then.
I just have to drum up enough courage to stay there.
I take another sip of my drink, fiddling with the edges of the coaster. I can feel someone's gaze on me, and I turn to see a guy sitting a few seats down on my right. His elbow is propped against the bar as he blatantly watches me with a serious expression on his face. His sandy blond hair falls over his forehead in a haphazard way, brushing against the thick slashes of his dark brows. He's good-looking by conventional standards, but there's something about him that seems off. Maybe it's because he's wearing a leather jacket and jeans and it's hot enough to cook an egg on the sidewalk outside.
I smile politely, not wanting to be rude—especially when I'm planning to put down some temporary roots here. But I'm not really interested in starting a conversation with him either.
I steal another glance a few minutes later, surprised to find his gaze unwavering. I shift in my seat, hoping a little movement will dislodge his stare.
It doesn't.
I tip my glass back and finish my drink. I can feel a knot forming in my stomach as I realize that I have to pass him as I leave. I'm sure I'm just being paranoid. Too many hours spent with too many true crime podcasts, Cora would say.
Just as I set my glass down, I hear something that stops me in my tracks.
“You lookin' for me, sweetheart?”
Tingles erupt down my spine at the low tenor next to my right ear. I do my best to tamper the relief and swallow the smirk that's begging to be let free. I shift my gaze over my shoulder, enough to see him in my peripheral vision without turning around completely.
“Nah, I'm just having a drink.”
He chuckles, this smooth sound like gooey marshmallows on a fresh s'more. “It looks like you started without me.”
I lift a shoulder and cave, the urge to drink him in is too strong. He's close, close enough for me to see exactly how rough his five o'clock shadow would feel against my skin. He smells like bergamot and the ocean, and I have to stop myself from running my nose along his neck.
He looks even better than I remembered. Over a head taller than me, despite the bar stool height. His broad shoulders and wind-swept hair. Even the light from the TV behind us casts him in a favorable, blue glow.
A quick flick of my gaze over his shoulder reveals an empty stool where that guy was.
“Oh, did I? Maybe you're just late.” I arch a brow, letting the challenge linger in the air between us.
“To a date with you? Never.” He smirks, his dimple winking at me. And I swear to god, that goddamn expression of his short-circuits something critical in my brain. He has no business being so attractive.
“If you think we're on a date right n—”
“Nah, you've got it twisted, sweetheart. This is us getting to know one another, giving you time so you feel good about your decision to let me take you out tomorrow.” His voice dips low, laced with a simmering promise.
