PROLOGUE
ROSALIE
I don’t usually makea habit of reading at The Mud Lounge. I’m one of those people who reads several books each week, and still can’t get enough—a voracious reader. There are so many good books in the world, and not enough time to read them, but I try. At this point, I’ll need to be buried with my TBR pile. As the town librarian, it’s not uncommon to find me outside work hours with my nose in a book.
Hell, it’s not often you’ll even find me at the bar. I much prefer reading with a bottle of red in my own home. But tonight warrants an exception. I can’t relax in my home, not whenheis there.
One could argue I can’t even enjoy my book out in public tonight. I’ve read the same page twice, my brain unable to absorb any of the lines when my mind is riddled with anxiety.
Ugh.
I can’t concentrate because of . . . nope. No way. I’m not giving my past a single ounce of my energy. Tonight, I refuse to ponder all the reasons for my current state of unease. Sure, the fact that I can’t escape into the words of a good book is infuriating. But I’m stubborn enough not to give in to a spiral of self-pity.
I reorient my frustration with gratitude.
I have a good life. A career I love. My health and good friends. Most of all, the universe blessed me with a beautiful boy, and I strive to be the best mother I can. Sure, our life looks nothing like the one I planned or imagined, but life is full of disappointments.
“Another?” Desiree pauses behind the bar as she passes my almost empty wine glass. Her arm muscles flex as she holds a crate of clean glasses.
“Yes, please.” I glance above my book and smile.
It’s only then I notice an all too familiar form strut in through the door.
His long and lean perfect body is made even better with thatfuck-me-it-should-be-a-crime-for-anyone-to-look-that-damn-goodface I’d pick out of any crowd.
But Jackson Wilder doesn’t notice me. Not that I expect him to. I sat in this very seat so I could people-watch unobserved.
His tall, slim frame is accentuated by the fit of his jeans and his crisp Carhartt button-down. A toothpick presses between his lips, drawing my focus to his mouth. I try not to stare but it’s useless.Sigh.He has really nice lips. Lips I’m certain would feel amazing on my skin.
Not that I’ll ever have first-hand knowledge on the subject.
God, what is wrong with me?
It’s been so long since I’ve been intimate with anyone, I’m now fantasizing about my friend’s little brother.
He’s off limits, first off.
And so not my type.
Is this what happens when you go too long without having sex?
If I could muster the boldness from the main character in my book, maybe tonight I could leave this bar with someone. I smile at the idea, even if it’s wild. This is a very small town. If I left with anyone, it would have to be a complete stranger.NotJackson Wilder.
“What can I get you tonight, sugar?” Desiree pauses in front of him.
I don’t know if I imagine it, but it seems there’s a hint of concern in her tone, and it pulls my interest further away from my book.
“Shot of whiskey. And a tall of whatever’s on tap,” Jackson orders, setting his hat on the seat to his right as he straddles one of the backless barstools.
“You got it.”
Desiree pours a shot, and Jackson doesn’t waste a second slamming it back. But when his beer is placed on the counter, he mumbles a thank you and stares into the contents of his glass without taking a sip.
Maeve’s little brother is well known and well loved . . . maybe even a little too well loved by the female population of Wilder Valley. Though I understand the allure. He’s handsome, smart, funny, successful, and despite being a bit of a womanizer, he carries himself with a casual, cocky confidence no man in his twenties has the right to.
At least, he normally does.
The deep set of his brow is full of introspection, and I wonder what has him so deep in thought. I almost set my book down to move closer.
