Page 17 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

Until it isn’t.

The guy comes in just before dusk. He’s in his mid-forties, with a smug vibe that screams he’s several times divorced and every ex of his is “crazy.” He leans against the bar like it owes him something and gives me a slow once-over.

“Well, hey there, sweetheart. You new?”

Customer-service smile activated. “Just started.”

“Lucky us.” His eyes trail down, then up again, making my skin crawl. “You got a name, or should I make one up?”

“I think ‘ma’am’ works just fine.”

He chuckles. “You’re feisty. I like that.”

I give a cursory glance around the bar. There are only a few people here. Hank’s in the back. No one else is watching. The guy leans in farther, breath sour with something cheap.

“Tell you what, why don’t you pour me a double whiskey, and I’ll leave you a tip worth smiling about?”

“No thanks,” I say, flat.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the low hum of the bar—low, sharp, and cold.

“She said no thanks, Ben.”

I turn.

Gage stands in the doorway, shadowed in the neon light. His hair’s tousled, his flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, and I swear he’s never looked more like he could throw a few punches.

Ben straightens. “I didn’t realize the new girl already had a boyfriend.”

“I’m not her boyfriend,” Gage says, stepping closer, “but I am the guy who’ll kick your ass if you don’t back the hell off.”

The air in the room stills. Even the music feels like it lowers its volume.

Ben backs up, huffing out a bitter laugh. “Not worth the trouble anyway.”

He throws some crumpled bills on the counter for the drink he ordered earlier and shuffles out.

Gage doesn’t move until the door swings shut behind him. Then his shoulders relax a little, and he looks at me.

“You okay?”

I nod, heart still racing. “Yeah. Thanks. You really take your role as a rescuer seriously.”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t say more. He almost never does.

“I was just checking on something,” he says instead. “I didn’t mean to barge in.”

“You didn’t. Well, you kind of did. But it was the good kind of barging.”

That earns a faint, flickering smile. A rare sight. It does something ridiculous to my insides.

I pour him a soda and slide it across the bar. “On the house.”

“No beer?”

“You strike me as the kind of guy who only drinks when he’s not about to drive.”

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