Page 43 of Small Town Sash

"Ah, the infamous Hadley Wilder," she nodded sagely. "Heard she's something else."

"Something else doesn't cover the half of it," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. It faded quickly. "She's...she's more than just a beauty queen, you know?"

"Sounds like you're head over combat boots for her," the woman observed with a playful smirk.

"Is it that obvious?" Braden sighed, running a hand through his black hair.

"Only to anyone in a five-mile radius," she replied, raising her glass to him before taking a sip. "But hey, love's a battlefield, right?"

"Feels more like a minefield right now," he admitted. The image of Hadley, with her black hair cascading around her curvy frame, haunted him. She was a force to be reckoned with—her intellect, her humor, her newfound independence. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd let her slip through his fingers.

"Then maybe it's time to stop playing it safe," the woman suggested, sliding off her stool. "Go after what you want, soldier."

"Maybe you're right," Braden said, the words hanging in the air as she sauntered away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Braden swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the ice clinking like a siren's call to action. He stared hard at the reflection in the mirror behind the bar—a man out of sorts, a soldier without a mission.

"Another?" The bartender's question cut through Braden's reverie.

"Hit me," he grumbled, pushing the glass forward.

"Rough night, huh?" The bartender's towel danced over another glass, round and round.

"Rough life," Braden corrected him, the whiskey burning its way down, setting his resolve on fire. "I'm supposed to be good at the rescue part, right? So why do I feel like I've just made everything worse?"

"Rescue part?" The bartender leaned in, curiosity piqued.

"Long story." Braden shook his head. "Let's just say I tried to help someone special, and it backfired."

"Ah, the hero complex," he said, giving a knowing nod. "Comes with the territory. But sometimes, helping isn't about fixing things."

"Then what's it about?" A bitter chuckle escaped Braden's lips.

"Being there. And from where I'm standing, you're still there, aren't you?" The bartender topped off his glass with a wink.

"Being there doesn't feel like enough." Braden's voice was low, edged with frustration.

"Sometimes, it's all we've got," the bartender shrugged, moving down the line to attend to another customer.

"Is it, though?" Braden muttered to himself, thoughts racing faster than his heartbeat. Hadley's blue eyes flashed in his mind, her laughter, her defiance. She wasn't just a beauty queen; she was a whirlwind of dreams and determination.

"Did I screw this up?" he asked his reflection, half-expecting an answer.

"Only if you quit now," the bartender called back, overhearing the one-sided conversation.

"Quit?" Braden scoffed. "I don't even know the meaning of the word."

"Good," the bartender shot him a thumbs up. "Now, what's your next move, hotshot?"

"Next move…" Braden mused. Ideas flickered, possibilities danced. He needed a plan—a grand gesture, something that screamed he was in it for the long haul.

The bartender's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Looks like you've got an idea brewing."

"More than an idea," Braden said, a determined grin spreading across his face. "A mission."

"Sounds serious," the bartender chuckled.

"Life or love—what's the difference?" Braden raised his glass in a mock salute.

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