Page 2 of The Golden Hour

I don’t look like I belong here any more than he does. I’ve certainly been told it enough in the year I’ve been here.

Frozen, I’m stuck in a movie of my life as he walks toward me, eye contact an electric thread between us. Not until he settles on the barstool directly in front of me do I blink and slam back to reality. His scent teases my nose. Something warm and tingly. Like a hug—preferably the naked kind. I glance at his hands. Strong and sinewy. Then his shoulders, broad and muscled beneath a soft flannel.

“W-what can I get you?”

Smooth.

“Whiskey neat,” he says in a rich, melting baritone. A slow smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”

The casual acknowledgment of our staring contest zings through my body. I haven’t been looked at the way he’s looking at me in a long time—not counting the handful of lecherous old men in town.

I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be seen.

“No,” I finally answer. “Do I?”

His smirk blooms into a smile that makes me dizzy.

“Nothing but glasses.” His eyes flicker to my mouth and back up. “Can I get that drink?”

Heat sizzles in my cheeks. “Yes, sorry.”

It’s a relief to turn my back to him and reach for a bottle on the top shelf—Single Malt Balvenie—because I know he’ll appreciate it. Going by the watch on his wrist, he can easily afford it.

I pour the drink and slide it to him. Before I can retract my fingers, he covers them with his own.

My breath hitches. My stomach drops. My fingers linger, frozen in space, after he pulls the glass away. Mortified, I tuck my hands quickly in my half apron.

He takes a sip. Sighs. Licks his lips. He must know his every movement drips suggestion. Men like this don’t have to work for sex. Willing partners flock to them, hoping for permission to touch and be touched, already shaping their hearts into arrows and lobbing them one after the other, praying one lands.

The thought is a shock, instantly dousing my newly woken libido.

“Thanks,” he says, eyelashes fluttering as his gaze returns to me.

I nod, stiff now, my body cold from the swift fleeing of desire. “You’re welcome. We close in a half hour. Let me know if you’d like another.”

I turn to make my escape.

“What’s your name?” he asks behind me.

“Grace,” I lie effortlessly and keep walking.

I’m not quite five steps away when he murmurs the name I’ve given him. It lands against my back like a feather, soft and drifting. A touch imploring.

Then it bounces away.

2

I watch the bartender stroll away from me, petite hips in an understated swing, her dark braid swinging against her back. When I walked in here, I was expecting the atmosphere of a dive and all that came with it, including a surly bartender named Mo or some close variation.

Instead, I found Nerdy Snow White in a surprisingly modern space that could go toe-to-toe with any big-city establishment.

I’ll admit I was taken aback by the sight of her, slow to recover. When her rosy lips parted on a gasp, and I realized she was equally shocked by me, my head went straight to that plush mouth swallowing my cock. A forceful reminder that it’s been weeks since I’ve sunk into a woman’s heat and felt respite from my demons.

The little bartender doesn’t know she’s the first woman I’ve found appealing in months. Maybe longer. The first to make me forget, even for a few seconds, what brought me to Solstice Bay.

The Balvenie glides down my throat, coating it with heat. I roll my shoulders up and back, willing them to let go of the tension they’ve carried for nearly forty-eight hours of travel. It’s no use. My muscles scream for a massage and rest. My entire body is coiled like a spring, my foot tapping incessantly on the rail beneath the bar.

“Kitchen’s closed, but we have some mixed nuts if you’re hungry.”

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