"I give it six weeks before she realizes and pretends it doesn't bother her."
He laughed then, low and surprised. "You're ruthless."
I shrugged. "I have a great imagination."
He glanced around the room, then back to me. "So what's my story?"
I smiled sweetly. "Quiet guy. A traveling man. Likes long walks on the beach and letting people think they've figured him out."
His eyes warmed. "Not wrong."
I tipped my chin to his feet, gesturing to his companion. It surprised me how calm he was for a bar this busy. “And Sully?"
His mouth curved into a smile. "Clearly the brains of the operation."
"Obviously." I paused. "Also, the better judge of character."
"He usually is."
"What about you?" he asked. "You always drink whiskey alone in small-town bars, or am I getting the deluxe version?"
"Definitely deluxe," I said. "This is the end-of-my-rope package. Whiskey included."
"You don't usually hang out in bars and talk to strangers?"
"No. I usually go home and stare at a wall after a day like today.” My gaze ran over him, unable to stop the heat thatbloomed in the pit of my stomach at the way his shirt stretched over his shoulders. “You're an upgrade."
"And yet here you are."
"And yet," I agreed. "Here I am."
We sat in companionable silence for a beat, the jukebox humming in the background. It was just enough time for me to wonder if this was a bad idea. Whether I should drain my glass and call it a night. But something about the ease of the silence with Jack kept me rooted in my chair. Growing up in a house as chaotic as mine meant that silence was sacred—especially when you could share it with someone.
"Want to talk about it?"
“Nope." I popped the p.
"Want to have a game of pool and take your mind off it?"
I smiled despite myself. "You always this observant?"
His eyes raked over me before settling on my face again. “Only when I'm interested."
My pulse skipped. There was that bluntness again. I fought the urge to squirm in my seat. "Is that so?"
He took a sip of his beer. "Mmhmm."
I leaned in closer, propping my chin on my hand. “And are you interested, Jack?"
He held my gaze. No rush. No bravado. "Yeah," he said simply. "I am."
And for the first time all day, I felt it—that easy, unexpected lightness. The sense that nothing was required of me. No fixing. No managing. Just sitting in a bar, flirting with a man who looked at me like this moment was exactly where he wanted to be.
We played pool and talked for two hours. Maybe three—I lost track somewhere between my second whiskey and the moment he made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on it.
He didn't pry. Didn't push for details I wasn't offering. When I deflected with sarcasm, he matched me beat for beat. When I went sharp, he stayed steady. He had a dry wit that kept sneaking up on me, delivering observations so deadpan that it took me a second to realize he was being funny.
I didn't tell him about my family or the ranch. He didn't tell me about himself either—no job, no hometown, no convenient labels to file away and forget.
