Tonight, he finally set it down.
Let others embrace his pain as he did theirs.
As I let him draw whatever energy he needs to go on, I know one thing with certainty. This man doesn’t love lightly. He doesn’t love halfway. He doesn’t love without cost.
Knowing what I do, I’m blessed he loves me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TWO MONTHS AGO
Tide Pool isthe kind of dive bar that makes you feel like you’re being let in on a secret. There’s no neon sign buzzing. The floor is quite possibly smoother than the hardwoods in my small cottage in Chester. Before we got there, Charlie warned me, “I’ve never not been here and stopped a fight.”
“Then I can’t wait to see what the night brings.”
He huffs, as if that’s a deterrent.
The place is crowded but not packed, but the second Charlie steps through the doorway, I’m not sure if it’s because thebartender called attention to him with her proclaiming, “Well, look who the cat dragged in!” Or if it’s because his dark jeans, boots, and henley—not to mention silver fox scruff—makes me want to drag him out for some one on one time instead.
He rolls his eyes at the bartender before guiding me toward the empty stools she jerks her chin at. “You sure you’re okay with this place?”
“I’m positive,” I say. “I can’t say I’ve been to a dive bar unless we actually stay for a while. Plus, I think half the population is side-eyeing either you, me, or want your boots.”
He glances down, amused. “They are good boots.”
“They scream recently spit shined.”
“Impossible. They’re made of waterproof hard tactical nylon.”
“I understood two of those words, yet they still scream expensive.”
A low laugh rumbles out of him that makes me smile just by being close enough to hear it.
We take the stools at the bar. Charlie automatically chooses the one with the best view of the room—habit. The bartender who recognized him slides over with a towel slung on her shoulder and a cautionary expression that says she’s ready for whatever comes next.
“Charlie,” she says. “Tell me it’s just you and not the rest of the looney bin tonight.”
“You lucked out, Jess,” he replies.
“For the moment.” Her eyes flick to me. Assessing. “You’re new.”
“I am.”
Charlie’s hand settles at the small of my back—casual to anyone watching, but I know what it is—a claim.
The bartender’s gaze softens by a fraction. “What’re you drinking?”
Charlie’s response is immediate, “Whatever is on tap.”
I say, “Tequila. Top shelf.”
Charlie’s winces. “Professor.”
“What?” I blink. “What’s wrong with tequila?”
“Nothing good happens at this bar when someone associated with my family drinks tequila.”
“Are we related?” I throw back at him.
