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“You sure?” Cy leaned around Braden with a frown.
“Yeah, man. I’m good.” Cass nodded. “Gonna poke around and see what I can find out about Rodey and Kissing Springs.”
They didn’t actually roll them, but Cass could see that glaze of uninterest cloud their eyes. He loved history; he often dug into the places he visited to learn more about them. He also frequented museums; the rest of the guys even got a little bored at the whiskey museum.
“Call if you want me to come back and get you,” Braden told him as he slid off his stool.
“I can walk it.”
“You’re not really dressed for a hike in the snow,” Zayne reminded him.
“Last time I looked there were six snowflakes on the ground.”
The loud burst of laughter from all of them drowned out the Clint Black song playing. Cass picked his glass up and noticed the bartender looking their way. He sipped his whiskey and offered his buddies one last smile as they zipped their coats to leave.
Another bottle of whiskey with his college friends or a chance to chat up the sexy bartender? No contest. Cass took a drink and waved the guys off, his eyes meeting hers as the song changed to something old and classic by Trace Adkins.
3
Marlowe
She waved again as Summer and Bristol headed to the door and reached with her other hand for Bob Crimm’s glass to get him a refill. The man would warm his barstool until last call and then stumble outside where his wife would be waiting for him in their ancient Chevy. Not exactly Marlowe’s idea of what marriage should look like, but then again, she wasn’t married, so what did she know?
The bachelor party bunch had paid their tab and headed out. Minus the guy with the cheekbones. Marlowe wasn’t sure cheekbones had ever turned her on before, but she kind of wanted to nibble on them. Maybe slide her tongue over them and see if they cut her. While she was close to his face, she’d try his lips, too. They were thin, but firm as if chiseled from stone.
He looked a bit like a god from Greek or Roman mythology. Not just the handsome face, but his whole demeanor. While Marlowe had seen him laughing and talking to the other guys, he seemed separate from them, too. The word aloof came to mind, but she wasn’t sure it was the correct one. Refined, maybe.
Marlowe pushed Bob’s pint glass back over the bar and returned the old man’s smile. The door opened, letting in a rush of cold air. Maverick Pressey and some of the cowboys from his dad’s ranch filed in. Mav hollered at her as they all saddled up to the bar.
“Hey.” She clapped his hand in the buddy shake they’d all perfected years ago. Marlowe had gone to school with Mav and his friend Rye Gallaher. She and Rye had tried to date once, but it was a disaster. They had decided after an awkward make out session to be friends. That was years ago, and Marlowe still considered Rye a good friend. Mav, on the other hand, would date and sleep with anything that moved. Except Marlowe. She would never consider herself that desperate for a guy.
“Can we get a pitcher?” Mav asked her.
“A pitcher?”
That surprised her. Usually, if Mav was in the Iron Stag, he was bellied up to the bar. Secretly relieved—she wanted Mav and his friends out of her way so she could talk to the pretty stranger a few stools down—Marlowe filled a pitcher with Mav’s usual choice and handed him a stack of plastic cups.
“Rye says hi,” he told her as he took the pitcher and cups.
“Yeah? How’s he doing?”
“Good.” Mav nodded. “He and Chantele are leaving tomorrow to visit some of her family in Indiana. So they wanted an early night.”
Marlowe smiled and nodded her approval. Rye and Chantele had met last summer right here in the Iron Stag. It had taken a bit, but they had eventually clicked, and it hadn’t been long before Chantele moved down here to Rodey to live with him.
The holidays were a good time to visit family. Marlowe loved that her friends could do that, but that old ache she’d shoved down inside years ago always tended to be worse this time of year. She and Way spent the holidays with her dad, and they had fun. But she missed her mom. She assumed her dad did, too, but they seldom talked about her.
Shaking off the grief that lingered even now, Marlowe finally made her way down the bar to the stranger.
“You’re not from around here.”
His smile revealed perfect teeth. The warmth in his eyes told her aloof was definitely the wrong word to describe him.
“No, I’m not.” He pushed his glass toward her. Marlowe tried to remember how much she had poured for him. She didn’t think it was much at all compared to the other members of his party. “Illinois, born and bred.”
“Chicago?”
“No.” He laughed and shook his head. “Mid-state. We don’t often claim Chicago as part of Illinois.”
