Page 19 of Steel Beauty

She glances around the room, her gaze sweeping the space with quiet curiosity. There’s a hint of hesitation in the way she moves, like she’s not quite sure if she belongs.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

The knot in my gut tightens as I watch her scan the bar, her brow furrowing slightly, like she’s searching for something—or someone. Her gaze sweeps the room, and then, for a moment, her eyes meet mine. A spark of something unspoken passes between us before she looks away, breaking the connection.

She moves to the bar, leaning against it. The bartender approaches, and they exchange a few words. He nods, reaching for a bottle of Laphroaig, pouring the amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. With practiced precision, he produces an orange peel, twisting it to release its oils before dropping it into the glass. Then, with a quick flick of a lighter, he ignites a small wooden plank, letting the aromatic smoke curl over the rim of the glass before sliding it toward her. Her fingers wrap around the glass, her posture relaxed, but there’s an air of focus about her that keeps my attention locked.

I try to concentrate on my whisky, but it’s no use. My gaze keeps wandering back to her, catching the way she casually tosses her hair over her shoulder, almost like a habit, yet somehow deliberate. The way she tilts her head, scanning the room, studying people.

Our eyes meet again, long enough for my pulse to skip. Neither of us smiles, but there’s something there—something electric, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

Dave, the bartender and a man I’ve known for years, catches my eye and gives a subtle nod, motioning me over. I drain the last sip of my whisky and rise from my seat, my heart kicking up a notch.

He gives me a knowing smirk before moving to the far end of the bar, away from where she’s sitting. He leans in slightly, keeping his voice low. “I reckon the American woman you asked about just came in.”

I feel my pulse jump. “The one in the green blouse?”

He nods, his eyes cutting toward her. “Yeah. Sounds like she’s fresh off the plane. Yank, for sure.”

I lean closer, the anticipation building. “Does she have a distinct accent? A drawl?”

His grin widens. “Oh yeah. Could charm a snake just by speaking, that one.”

My chest tightens, excitement thrumming through me.

It’s her. Gotta be.

I glance over, catching sight of her as she lifts her glass, taking a slow sip. For a moment, it feels like she’s looking right through me—like she already knows exactly who I am.

A grin stretches across my face, unstoppable. I turn to Dave, nodding toward her drink. “Give me one of whatever she’s having.”

Dave chuckles, preparing the drink with an amused shake of his head. I take the glass and make my way back to my table, my pulse drumming a little harder with each step.

Our gazes meet again, and the corner of her mouth lifts, like she’s in on some inside joke I haven’t cracked yet. My stomach flips, and suddenly, I realize I’m grinning like a bloody idiot.

I take a long sip, then another, trying to quiet the nerves thrumming under my skin. Finally, I down the rest of the whisky, letting the burn settle in my chest.

Enough waiting. I can’t sit here another second.

I start toward her. My heart pounds, but a grin tugs at my mouth, unstoppable now.

“Hello,Charleston.”

She looks up, and damn if that smile doesn’t hit me square in the chest.

“Hello,Caesar,” she says, her words draped in that unmistakable Southern drawl.

It’s her. I knew it.

The grin on my face stretches wider. I couldn’t hide it if I tried, and I don’t care to.

Without a word, she shifts slightly, nudging the barstool beside her with her foot—a clear, unspoken invitation to join her. I slide onto the seat, setting my glass down between us, my gaze locked on hers.

“I wondered if you’d come,” I say, my eyes studying hers.

Her gaze dips for a moment, fingers tracing the rim of her glass in a slow, thoughtful circle. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I’m glad you did.”

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