It’s been just over two months since Julian walked into this bar. And I’ve thought about seeing him again—though,fantasizedmight be the better word. I hadn’t been able to shake the atypical probability that maybe the universe was finally doling out some good karma my way.
“Naomi,” Julian says with a playful lilt, “sixty-four seems?—”
“Wildly specific?” I cut in, smiling and squinting one eye.
“I was going to say, not as long as it’s felt,” he corrects, shifting his weight.
Did he really just say that?My stomach whirls at that, and my cheeks heat instantly.
“I’m surprised you found your way back here.”
His eyes stay on mine as he says, “I was always coming back. Just took me a minute.”
My arm pauses from moving toward the bottle I was reaching for, unable to suppress the smile those few words pull out of me. I’ve never been this woman—the kind who gets too excited at attention or overly eager for a guy to show interest.
His body language and the way his eyes don’t leave me feels damn good, and so incredibly overwhelming.Don’t shy away from this.
Julian rubs along the back of his neck, looking nervous and maybe like he’s working through something. “I’ve been listeningto the podcast that was just playing. I’m still stuck on the one about the missing people down in Tennessee.”
My shoulders tense at hearing the place I used to call home. I glance at Boss, who meets my eye for a wordless exchange. Something like:Be cautious. We don’t know this guy.But what Boss doesn’t know is that I did a little bit of online sleuthing after Julian left.
“I was partial to the one about the stolen paintings and how they’ve been discovered,” I say, trying to shift the conversation away from anything having to do with my past.
.
When I glance back at Julian, his eyes are on me. “I have some friends in the art collecting world—savages, the entire lot of them,” he teases.
Art and collecting is a world that he’s intimately familiar with, though.
“If that’s how you describe your friends,” I say, shaking my head, “I’d hate to hear what you think of your enemies.”
All it took was a shameless internet search to discover that Julian Colton is a bit more than the jeweler he mentioned being in passing during his last visit. He underplayed the fact that his pieces are considered fine art. “Exquisite” and “prolific” were mentioned a few times in varying articles. He’s a celebrated artist, and his work is more than sought-after; it’s praised and widely known. He has installations in galleries all over the world, and his name is connected to a couple of high-profile actresses who attended Met Galas multiple years in a row, wearing statement pieces from jewel-encrusted gowns to headpieces. Every single item was stunning.
“You sound like her,” he says, making me stop what I’m doing for a moment. “The podcast host—similar ways you say certain things. Where did you say you were from again?” he asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t,” I answer. Surprisingly, there isn’t an ounce of hesitation in my response. “I don’t know that you’ve earned those details just yet.”
If he tried the same method of searching for me, he would’ve come up with nothing. There isn’t a single social media account, pictures, or registered party history. It’s not because I haven’t accomplished remarkable things or taken countless pictures of drinks and food once upon a time. There’s an explanation as to why none of that existed; I just wasn’t willing or able to share. Just like there isn’t aScientific Americanarticle that features the breakdown of sugars in organic compounds and how it relates to the whiskey and bourbon industries. Naomi Nash wouldn’t be listed in its byline or referenced as a spotlight speaker at the National Symposium of Organic Chemistry in Nashville a few years prior. The same way there wouldn’t be any grants or countless hours of research attributed to the same name that had its own impact on the organic chemistry community.
“And what would I need to do to earn those details?” he asks. a smirk playing on his lips.
Why am I so focused on the way he licks that bottom lip?
The sound of the jukebox kicking back on and the familiar crooning of Boss’s latest additions shakes me enough to focus back on the task of making the drink in front of me. “I’m not in the business of oversharing and making it easy.” When I lift my eyes and look at him, I add, “What fun would that be?”
Holy shit, who are you right now?I’ve opted for a quiet, uneventful life. Accolades don’t matter, and I’ve learned that the painful way. And while the bulk of my family have been hopeful romantics, I never saw myself that way. I preferred rational pragmatism. But this, with him, is fun. And while being a realist now means that the probability of finding a physical, intellectual, and emotional connection with a person would be almost impossible. I look at the way he’s smiling at my comebackand wonder if maybe something physical could be enough, even for only a short while.
The limitations are not because I’m broken, though I am, it’s because the details about my past and where I’ve chosen to remain need to be kept secret. Naomi Nash is simply a bartender in the middle-of-nowhere Montana, living on a ranch that doesn’t exist on any map or GPS system. I’m meant to be easily forgotten. And yet, the way this man’s arms are crossed over his chest as he watches me pour out three fingers of whiskey into a smoked and chilled glass makes it all feel like bullshit. Julian Colton is looking at me as if he didn’t forget me the same way I didn’t forget him—or the palm reading he was promised.
His attention moves a fraction lower, settling on my lips, and then landing on my wrist. I realize what he’s looking at, and my face heats, slightly embarrassed, hating that I’ve only taken this off to shower.
“You forgot something,” I say quietly, bringing my fingers to the gold snaps that hold the leather cuff in place.
As I move to take it off, he says, “I didn’t. It gave me an excuse to come back here and flirt with the beautiful woman at the bar.” He covers my wrist with his hand. “Leave it. Looks better on you.”
I swallow, not sure what to do with any of this—the compliment, the embarrassment, his gentle touch—hell, even how he looks as good, maybe even better, than I remember.Put those brave pants back on, Wyn!
He’s all charm as he lets go and lingers closely. Leaning on the bar, he runs his thumb along the scruff lining his jaw, and I can imagine even in certain crowds, he’d be considered arrogant or even presumptuous, but there wouldn’t be a single person who could argue he has a presence and sex appeal that leaves an impression. What Julian has is learned, maybe even refined, into what I imagine is a hell of an experience.
