I needed one night—just one—where I wasn't Maggie Blackwood, fixer of all things. Where no one knew my name or needed anything from me. Where I could just... breathe.
I found a bar on the main drag called the Bull Pen. It was the kind of place with neon signs in the windows and trucks in the gravel lot and absolutely no one who would recognize the exhausted blonde woman walking through the door like she belonged there.
The noise hit me first. Voices layered over each other. The crack of pool balls from somewhere in the back. A mechanical bull in the back named Whiplash. The jukebox played myfavorite song, Chris Stapleton's "Tennessee Whiskey.” It felt like a sign that coming here was the right choice.
I ordered a whiskey neat, then I found an empty spot at the bar and let myself settle.
Just one drink. That was the plan.
The plan lasted approximately four minutes.
Because that's when I saw him.
He was sitting at the far end of the bar, alone, a beer in front of him that looked like he'd been nursing it for a while. There was a dog at his feet—a big German Shepherd with intelligent eyes, lying calm and watchful like a well-trained shadow. One paw rested on the man's boot, casual and possessive, like he was keeping track.
But it was the man who caught my attention.
Jesus fucking Christ.
That was my first thought. Not clever. Not subtle. Just profanity and the abrupt evacuation of every sensible thought I'd been having up until that moment.
He was gorgeous.
Not pretty-boy gorgeous. Not polished or preened or trying too hard. Just the kind of man who made your brain lose its place mid-thought and never quite recover. Dark hair cut short enough to make me wonder if he was military. A jaw that looked like it could end arguments. Shoulders stretching his shirt like they'd been earned the hard way—not mirrors and machines, but work. Real work.
And his forearms—damn.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, casual like he didn't know what kind of damage that did. Strong, corded, veins faintly raised beneath tanned skin, flexed every time he lifted his beer.
My stomach dipped. My pulse kicked low.
Those were hands that knew how to fix things. Build things. Hold things steady.
Do things.
I shifted on my stool, suddenly far too aware of my body and absolutely furious with it for reacting like this to a man I hadn't even spoken to yet.
But my eyes betrayed me, drifting back to those forearms like they had their own gravity.
He wasn't loud. Wasn't scanning the room for attention or performing for anyone watching. He was just... still. Settled. Grounded in a way that pulled at something in my chest I didn't have a name for.
He must have felt me staring because he looked up, And when our eyes met across the bar, he didn't look away.
Most men would have. Most would have glanced, assessed, and made a decision one way or the other. But this guy just held my gaze like he had all the time in the world. Like the noise and the chaos and the dozen other people in that bar had faded into background static, and I was the only thing worth paying attention to.
He didn't smile like he'd won something. He didn't leer or preen or do any of the things men do when they think they've caught a woman's interest.
He just looked.
Calm. Patient. Curious.
I should have looked away. Should have turned back to my whiskey and stuck to the plan I'd made when I walked in here about one drink and one hour and nothing else.
Instead, I picked up my glass and walked toward him.
The dog lifted his head as I approached, assessing me with sharp eyes before settling back down, uninterested. Hopefully, I'd get a better response from his owner.
"This seat taken?" I asked.
