Moonlight bathes the edges of the great room in silver. The fire died hours ago, leaving only the faint glow of embers and the soft creak of settling wood.
I start with the obvious stuff. Original timber framing. The hand-carved banister. Dueling stone fireplaces with century-old soot stains.
But instincts have a direct line to my feet and the two conspire to drag me to the bar.
Gee, I wonder why.
I slip behind the heavy wood counter, crouching down to get just the right angle on the old brass footrail I’m willing to bet almost no one knows was added on the first year anniversary in 1923.
Just over a hundred years later, a slight tarnish coats her delicate curves—rendering her absolutely perfect.
My camera clicks in the darkness, the flash illuminating details I've memorized since childhood.
“Couldn't sleep either?”
I jerk upright and crack my head on the underside of the bar.
“Shit—fuck—sonofabitch?—”
“Baby, you have such a way with words.” Everett peers over the edge of the bar, clearly fresh from bed.
His thick, wavy hair is mussed, but perfect, the ass. The black tee stretches tight over that annoyingly heroic chest——and then there’s the gray sweatpants.
Slung low.
Fully weaponized.
The universe is testing me. That's the only explanation. Some cosmic entity is sitting up there with a checklist of ways to emotionally ruin me.
Gray sweatpants? Item number one.
“I couldn't sleep,” I manage, rubbing the back of my head and very deliberately not looking below his waist. “Figured I'd be productive.”
“At two in themorning.”
“I outgrew bedtimes a long time ago.”
He arches and eyebrow, amusement making his mouth twitch. “Something wrong with your head?”
“Nothing. I'm fine. Just... startled.”
“By me?”
“Yes, and what damage you didn’t do, the bar took care of for you.” I'm still rubbing the back of my skull, and I'm definitely not looking at the way those sweatpants hang on his hips. Definitely not. “What are you doing up?”
“Same as you.” He moves closer, and my spine presses harder against the shelf behind me. “Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd wander.”
“You wandered to the bar.”
“Force of habit.” He shrugs, the movement doing something to his shoulders that I refuse to acknowledge. “Bartender instincts. When in doubt, check the stock.”
We face off in light bright enough to see, but dark enough to pretend you can’t.
The two of us, once so good at filling the silence, now suffocating under the weight of silence we can’t break.
The moonlight catches on his face, illuminating his short beard, and flickering over the tired lines around his eyes.
And even with exhaustion blanketing his face, he’s breathtakingly gorgeous.
