My mind flipped through my usual favorites as I drove around town, hoping to inspire some kind of craving, but nothing. Everything sounded like I’d rather eat cardboard, which was crazy considering I’d never been picky a day in my life.
I was about to call the whole destination-less endeavor off when I saw the neon sign of The Crooked Quill. My stomach growled loudly, and my mouth began watering thinking of their loaded fries, and bacon cheese burgers. Turning the wheel sharply to the left, I cut back into the lane I’d almost left, and headed for the bar’s parking lot. If I’d pulled that maneuver leaving the bar, it probably would’ve appeared like I’d had one too many, when in actuality, I was having one too few for the day I had.
A gust of warm air hit my face as I opened the door a moment later, the smell of beer and grease wafting toward me. Between the warmth and the low lighting, a sense of ease filled me.
The Crooked Quill sat somewhere between town dive bar and restaurant. It was nothing like The Squeaky Stool back home, with its sticky floors, mismatched furniture, and questionable clientele, but it wasn’t exactly upscale either. The booze was still cheap, but the atmosphere was better.
Like its name suggested, the interior played off Pennsylvania’s history. Dark cherrywood chairs with green, faux-leather seats sat at tables whose tops were clear epoxy so that clippings of state history—including replicas of the Declaration of Independence—could be seen through them. Oil lamps sat at evenly-spaced intervals across the black speckled bartop, the bar behind it accented with a heavy, wooden arch, at the crest of which sat a hand-carved bald eagle. It screamed “America” in a subtle speakeasy sort of way.
Sitting myself at the bar on one of the high-top stools, I glanced briefly at the menu to give myself something to do while I waited. Every item listed had a name that was also a historical event, person, or pun. It was clever, but nothing changed my mind. The only thing I wanted was a bacon cheeseburger from thisexactplace. It was bad enough that if the bartender told methey’d run out of bacon, I was ninety-eight percent certain I’d cry.
However, no tears were shed, and twenty minutes later I had the best-looking burger in front of me with extra pickle spears, and loaded fries.
I was finishing off the last of my fries, and I mean the very last of them because I’d eaten everything the bartender put down in front of me except for the napkin, when a low, surly voice rumbled from behind me.
“A Sam Adams, please.”
I glanced over to where the man sat two seats down from me, setting his motorcycle helmet on the bartop, and almost choked on a fry.
His dark hair was pushed back from the helmet he’d been wearing, and he ran a hand through it, tousling the silky strands. Mossy green eyes stared determinedly ahead, and I knew for a fact that if he turned toward me, I’d find the puckered, silver scar running from his hairline through his left eyebrow. The black sweatshirt he wore stretched tightly over his broad chest, and the fabric around his biceps looked ready to tear. Cold radiated off him, not in the literal sense, but in a way that screamed “run away” even though his rugged beauty was alluring—daring you for a closer look. A touch. One that would set you ablaze.
And nothing could’ve made this day worse, or made me want a drink more—other than being told I couldn’t have one—than this man walking into the bar becauseof courseit was Archer Mack.
Well, today already sucked, so if I was going to go home feeling like a piece of shit, I might as well go home feeling like an accomplished piece of shit. Plus, it saved me from having to make a trip to the fire station and embarrassing myself in front of the only humans who could save me if my apartment caught on fire.
Of course I’d run into him here, of all places. How serendipitous.
He was just sitting down when I turned his way, catching his eye. I filled my voice with all the confidence I absolutely did not feel, and said, “Archer Mack, you are just the man I was looking for.”
SEVEN
ARCHER
Nothing good has ever come from someone looking for me. Historically speaking, it usually meant I was getting fired, I owed someone money, or I was about to get my ass beaten. Granted, none of those things had happened in a long time, but I also hadn’t had anyone looking for me in a long time either.
I knew for a fact that I didn’t owe Darcy Adler money, and while I had no doubt she’d do a hell of a job trying to beat the crap out of me, nothing about her body language seemed aggressive. She seemed nervous, though from the way her chest had puffed up slightly since addressing me, she definitely didn’t want me to notice that. Her lithe body leaned back into her bar stool in an attempt at nonchalance, but she was too rigid.
It’d been a little over two months since I’d seen her last, and something about her seemed different. I let my eyes roam overher long, toffee-brown hair that spilled over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes reflected the warm, yellow light of the bar, giving them a honey-ish hue, and the little hollows in her cheeks where her dimples appeared when she smiled were shadowed, even though she wasn’t smiling.
When she stood to take the seat directly next to mine, I was reminded of how tall she was. She still had to be seven or eight inches shorter than me—being six foot five usually meant I was the tallest person in the room—but for a woman, she was tall.
What she really was, was a knockout.
She could’ve been a model if she wanted, but nothing about Darcy made it seem like that was a circle she had any desire to be in.
“You’ve been looking for me?”
The bartender returned with my beer and I passed him my card. He’d leave it open for me like always, and like always, I’d close it after three.
“I have. I need to talk to you. Privately.”
I scanned the near empty bar, then glanced back to her, an eyebrow arched. It was a weekday night at six o’clock—there was no one here.
She rolled her eyes, sending a pointed glance toward the bartender before storming off toward a table at the back of the bar. With every step, her hair brushed the top of her high-waisted jeans, drawing my eyes to her perfectly-sculpted ass. An ass I can still picture perfectly in my mind, the way it felt in my hands while those legs of hers snaked their way around my hips, pulling me closer to her center.
Blinking away the memory, I followed behind her, redirecting my gaze as she turned to slide into a booth. Sitting opposite her, I raised the bottle to my lips and took a large pull of the sweet, hoppy liquid. Seconds ticked by as I waited for her to say whatever it was she needed to say, but she simply stared at me,and as beautiful as she was, the silence had me growing agitated. I wanted to be alone. At least . . . until Harrison got here.
Going to the liquor store and buying a case for my house would’ve been a smarter move, given the sour mood I was in, but I also needed dinner. The Crooked Quill killed two birds with one stone.
