Fuck it.
I grab my keys and head for the truck.
Bear Creek Tavern is exactly what you'd expect from a roadhouse a short drive outside of town—neon beer signs glowing in the windows, classic rock drifting from the sound system, the smell of grilled meat and fried food hanging in theair. The parking lot is nearly full, a mix of pickup trucks and motorcycles, and the crowd inside is eclectic in a way that only highway bars can manage.
I push through the door, aware that I might look out of place. I’m in dark jeans and a charcoal gray sweater that a woman once told me looked great with my eyes, and a splash of my best cologne. I wanted nice, but not trying too hard—or at least that’s what I told myself in the mirror.
Scanning the room, I see couples in booths, some guys at the bar watching a game, a group of burly bikers in the corner celebrating something with drinks and laughter. No one who looks like they're waiting for someone.
I check my watch. I’m early. Doesn’t surprise me.
I order a beer at the bar and take it to a booth toward the back, positioning myself where I can see the door. My heart is pounding harder than it should be. I feel like I'm about to run into a burning building, except what's waiting for me on the other side is ten times more frightening.
I take a long pull of my beer, hoping to settle my nerves.
The door opens, and there she is…Sloane.
Impossible.
She's not in her coaching gear. Instead of a ponytail, leggings, and whistle around her neck, she's wearing fitted jeans that hug every god given curve, ankle boots, and a soft leafy green sweater that’s buttoned up just before her sexy cleavage. Heavens, I could dive right in.
Her hair is down, waves of tawny blonde tumbling past her shoulders. She's wearing makeup—only enough to make those green eyes pop and her lips look full and soft and infinitely kissable.
She looks like my ultimate fantasy.
She spots me immediately, and smiles.
It's knowing and confident, but maybe a little nervous around the edges.
I get up from the booth. My dad taught me to stand when a lady enters the room.
She walks straight toward me, and when she’s close enough to touch, she stops.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Captain." Her voice wraps around me like smoke.
"It was you," I say, still trying to believe it.
"It was me." There’s no shame in her gaze as those gorgeous eyes take me in. “May I…give you a hug?” she asks.
“Of course,” I reply, unable to deny such a sweet request.
She steps forward, sliding her arms around me, and I stop breathing.
She fits against me like she was designed to be there, her head tucking perfectly under my chin, her breasts pressing into my chest. She’s warm and soft and she smells like flowers carried on the breeze. I’d nuzzle my face into her hair if it was appropriate. But it’s not…not yet.
Still, I hold her longer than I should.
When we separate, her cheeks are flushed.
I stare at her, my brain trying to catch up with reality. I'd convinced myself it wasn't her. Told myself a thousand reasons why it couldn't be. But some part of me—the part that noticed every glance, savored every teasing word, and replayed every moment of her sayingCaptainin that particular tone—always knew.
"You knew," she says softly. "Didn't you?"
"I suspected." I clear my throat. "I told myself I was wrong."
"Why?"
Because you're twenty-three. Because you're beautiful and bright and could have anyone.
