But I noticed him the second he walked in.
Guys like that don’t sit in bars unless they’re watching something.
And he’s been watching the whole time.
Our eyes meet again as he passes the end of the bar. His expression doesn’t change and he doesn’t slow down, but there’s something there behind his gaze that makes the hairs along the back of my neck lift slightly. It isn’t curiosity or drunken interest or anything like that. It’s something quieter. Something steadier.
Focus.
Like he already made a decision about something and the rest of the night is just catching up to it.
Then he pushes the door open and disappears outside.
I watch the door swing shut behind him, the neon light flickering briefly across the glass before the room swallows the moment.
“Who was that?” one of the regulars asks from two stools down.
I shrug and go back to drying the glass. “No idea.”
But that’s not entirely true.
Because the way he watched those guys earlier wasn’t curiosity.
It was an evaluation.
And when the three idiots walked out the door, he followed them.
Which means one of two things is about to happen in my parking lot.
Either those men are about to learn a valuable lesson…
Or the quiet guy out there is about to regret sticking his nose in someone else’s business.
I set the glass down and wipe my hands on the towel before glancing toward the front window. The neon beer sign buzzes softly against the dark glass, and beyond it the parking lot sits under a couple weak streetlights that barely push back the night. Shadows stretch across the gravel, and the shape of a motorcycle leans under one of the lamps like it’s waiting for something.
For a moment I seriously consider stepping outside just to see what happens, because curiosity has always been one of my worst personality traits and this town doesn’t give me a lot of entertainment after dark.
Then Wayne clears his throat behind me.
“Rae.”
I turn and look at him.
He jerks his head toward the end of the bar where three guys are waving for drinks, their empty bottles clinking against the counter while they wait.
“Customers.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say.
I grab three bottles from the cooler and slide them across the counter toward the waiting hands, but part of my attention stays on the front door while I work. I’ve been standing behind this bar since I was sixteen years old, and The Rust Nail is the only place that has ever really felt like home. Wayne might be a grumpy old man who complains about everything from the price of beer to the music on the jukebox, but he’s also the man who handed a runaway kid a broom, a room upstairs, and a chance to stay when nobody else gave a damn whether she had somewhere to sleep that night.
He never asked questions about where I came from or why I looked like I hadn’t eaten in two days. He just told me to sweep the floors and keep the place clean, and after that he started teaching me how to run the bar like I belonged here.
So yeah, I’m protective of him. And I’m not about to let three strangers stroll into The Rust Nail and try to take that away from him. Which means if the quiet guy out in my parking lot is about to cause trouble…He’d better win.
I set another round of beers on the bar and try to focus on the job in front of me, but my attention keeps drifting toward the door like a dog hearing something outside it can’t quite see. The jukebox hums along with some old rock song and the regulars start talking again like nothing happened, but the feeling in mychest won’t settle down. Curiosity has always been my worst trait, and tonight it’s practically yelling at me.
I last about thirty seconds before giving up.
