She tuts, taking a sip of her wine, “Oh, nonsense. You’ve got a great team in here, honey; they’d look after it for you.”
“That is true, but you know how I am, Linda. This is my home.”
“Well, looks like the ranch is your home now.” She winks. “Wouldn’t mind seeing a cowboy like that every day.”
I laugh and nod, pretending and agreeing, but she also isn’t wrong. Roman isn’t bad to look at in theslightest, so it’s not like it’s a hardship. I leave her to her wine and finish setting up for the night. The band is due to arrive in the next hour, and I still need to move all the tables and chairs out of the stage area opposite the bar. We don’t schedule live music too often, which is why I use the raised section for seating most of the year, but doing events like this now and then helps bring in business from towns over and it’s good for the locals to have a bit of variety.
With us slowly coming into full spring, and summer around the corner, tourists are trickling in. The spring festival is in a couple of weeks, which brings more people to this tiny little town. Tourist season sets the tone for the rest of the year; most businesses earn enough money to set them up for fall and winter, but it’s important to get people talking — hence the live shows.
The bar continues to thrive around me as I shift the furniture to make room and then hook up the sound system and lights. By the time evening rolls in, it’s busier, and when the band finally arrives, there isn’t a single seat left vacant. My staff work overtime at the bar as they try to get through the several people deep queue that stretches the entire way down and beyond them, the floor is packed, covering every available inch. I say hello to a few familiar faces as I make my way back behind the bar to help my crew.
A crawling sensation prickles at the back of my neck as I work, preparing drinks and cocktails, and I try to shake off the feeling, but it persists. I glance over my shoulder, expecting someone to be standing right at my back. Of course, there isn’t, but there is an older guy sitting at the very end of the bar and his eyes are on me. There’s something so familiar about him, and yet I don’t recognize him at all. That’s nothing new, not when we get so many fresh faces passing through, but it feels like I’ve seen him somewhere before.
Dark eyes remain on mine as he slowly lifts his beer bottle to his lips and takes a swig. His stare holds no warmth. It isn’t quite expressionless, but there’s something there behind his eyes that burns, a churning endless pit. The hair on my arms stands up in response, a sense of unease making my muscles bunch up.
Shaking it off, I turn away from him, distracting myself with my customers, but as the hour passes, my unease grows. I can feel his glare pressing right into my spine.
I don’t like it, and I won’t stand for it anymore. Slipping out from behind the bar, I glance back to make sure he’s still there and then turn to the security I hired for the night. With this many people, things can turn quickly, and I wasn’t going to take the risk. I’m almost there when a hand grasps my arm.
My response is immediate.
I spin and shove up with my knee, connecting with the guy between the legs.
He grunts loudly and doubles over, and it takes me a few long seconds to realize it isn’t the guy from the bar groaning in pain before me.
It’s Roman.
“Oh my God!” I gasp, reaching for him. “I’m so sorry.”
“What the fuck?” He wheezes.
“Well, why would you grab me like that!?” I shriek as I help him over to the corner, pulling up an empty chair for him to sit in. He slumps down, eyes squeezed closed as he manages his pain.
“I called your name.” He sucks in a breath and pushes his hand into his lap, fidgeting in discomfort. His eyes meet mine with a grimace.
“Do you need ice?” I wince, looking to his lap. “Can you even ice balls or will they, like, shrivel up? Maybe heat?”
His fiery gaze melts into a glare.
“I’m really sorry,” I cringe, unsure what I can do to fix this. I hit him pretty hard. “You really shouldn’t just grab people like that; I thought you were someone else.”
“Someone else?” His eyes narrow, the pain forgotten for a moment. “Who?”
I look back toward the bar, searching for the guy, but the spot he was in is now empty, his beer bottle left on the bar top.
“No one — it doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “Can I get you anything?”
“Who was it?” He pushes, looking beyond me to the same spot.
“They’ve left,” I shrug. “It’s not a big deal, and I was handling it.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but the band starts up a new set and music blasts through the bar, making it impossible to talk. I try to tell him the best I can that I’ve got to get back to work. He doesn’t stop me as I push through the crowd, leaving him to nurse his wounds, and take my spot back behind the bar, getting to work immediately to clear the queue that’s built back up.
I sing along to the songs as the band plays, laughing as I watch a couple attempt to line dance on the tiny dance floor set up in front of the band. They trip over each other as they go, but their laughter is contagious.
I spot Roman sitting in a booth next to the stage, looking entirely too comfortable with his knees spread and an arm resting along the back of the bench. His hat is still on, shielding much of his face, and he nods his head along with the beat of the music. The stage lights kiss him just right, turning the skin I can see golden. There’s an allure you can’t deny or look away from.
“Earth to Niamh,” One of my bartenders touches my arm, and I jolt, snapping my head around. “Sorry.” She winces, “You were staring, like really hard at Roman.”
