Page 4 of The Golden Hour

“I was thinking about my mom.”

Jesus Christ. What the fuck happened to my filter?

“She lives here?”

I nod, my lips clamped shut. Clearly the whiskey on an empty stomach was a bad idea.

“How long has it been?” she asks, gentle but direct, like she’s unused to asking such personal questions.

Maybe she is bad at small talk. It’s kind of refreshing, even though her question sends heat marching up my spine. Part of me wants to snap at her, tell her to leave me in peace. If there’s one thing I don’t do—with anyone—it’s talk about my family.

But there’s something about this woman. Or maybe about this place, shrouded in mist and sea spray. And the night outside—true darkness born of minimal streetlights and family-owned businesses that close at sunset. When I drove into town, I felt weirdly enveloped, as though I passed into another time in a world not my own.

“About eight years,” I answer my unsuspecting confessor. I offer a pitiful smile. “Don’t judge me.”

“You won’t find any judgement here. Would you like another drink?”

God, her voice. It drips with sincerity, smooth as silk with a hint of barbed wire. More intoxicating than any whiskey.

“Yes, please.” My own voice is rougher than intended, sharp with the effect she has on me.

She blinks at me, eyes large and startled. My head spins. She looks familiar suddenly, like a half-remembered dream just outside my reach. For a split second, I’m convinced I’ve met her before.

Then she spins away, dark braid swinging, and reaches up for the bottle of whiskey, and all I can think about is the gentle flare of her hips and the way her perky ass would feel in my hands.

3

Grace avoids me for the next half hour—not an easy task in an almost empty bar. But between tending the final booth of customers, sweeping the floor, and restocking napkins and whatever else, she stays busy.

I almost convince myself to leave three or four times, but instead I nurse my drink and think about what it would take to seduce Snow White. My half-drunk head spins fantasies of feeding her juicy red apples and tying ribbons around her neck.

Eventually I become aware of movement behind me. Heavy boots, rustling coats. The front door opens with a soft squeal as the last customers leave. I listen with half an ear as Grace bids them good night, thanks them for coming in, and try not to think about the fact we’re about to be alone. Or that she might be about to ask me to leave.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her approach the bar and me, and brace myself to be kicked out.

A pair of boots clomps our way and a gruff, grandfatherly voice asks, “You want me to stick around, Grace? Make sure you get home safe?”

The undercurrent of mistrust tells me he’s speaking for my benefit. I almost laugh—she’s more of a threat to me than I am to her. But I don’t say anything, just watch a series of emotions cross Grace’s face like a slideshow. Confusion, understanding, embarrassment, gratitude…

Up until this moment, I knew exactly nothing about this woman except her voice gets me hard and I want her beneath me. Now I know she’s innocent in a way I hadn’t imagined. And probably a lot younger than I originally thought.

I still want her.

She has to be at least twenty-one to be working here, right?

“Twenty-one,” I mutter, head in my hands, “I’m out of my mind.”

“What?”

In my mental lapse, the well-meaning grandfather said his goodbyes and left. Grace is down the bar from me with a rag in her hand and a dreamy look on her face as she stares at me.

Even though I care less than I should, I make myself ask, “How old are you?”

Her cheeks bloom with red, a sight I’m becoming irrationally obsessed with.

“Why?” she asks, high and breathless.

Screw it. I’m desperate.

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