Page 2 of From West, With Regret

I’ve almost finished my drawing when emotion swells in my throat, though I know it isn’t for Heath. It’s for something else. Something I feel I’ve lost. Another puzzle piece to lock away for later.

I close my eyes and dig for any feeling I have toward losing my husband of six months, only to come up empty.

My shoulders drop with a sigh, and I open my eyes.

The man standing behind the bar catches my attention. He’s at the end of it, in front of the swinging door that leads to the back. His black button-down shirt is rolled up his arms, revealing dozens of intricately drawn tattoos on his skin. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the top of his sculpted chest. A thick beard covers his jaw, and his intense blue eyes flash in my direction.

Searing heat spreads across my face. I clear my throat and dart my eyes away from his unrelenting gaze.

I finish the last line across the bottom of my drawing and flip the napkin back over, forcing myself to think of one good thing to say about Heath.

Still nothing.

“Can I help you?”

I look up and find the man with blue eyes now standing in front of me. His long fingers grip the edge of the bar, the muscles beneath the inked skin of his arms straining against the sleeves of his shirt.

“Um.” I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth, unsure if I should even bother grabbing a drink. I flash my eyes toward the front of the bar before swinging them back to the man. “No, I think I’m good.”

“So,” he says, glancing down at my napkin. “You come into a bar, draw all over my napkins, but you don’t intend on ordering anything?”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you have a rule saying I need to buy something to sit here?”

His lips part as he scratches at his chin. “No, though I do believe it’s an unwritten rule.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “When customers come into a bar and sit down, they usually order at least one drink.”

“Fine.” I deadpan, hardening my gaze. “I’ll order a beer.”

I focus back to the napkin, pretending I know what I’m going to write in spot number one.

“What kind of beer?”

I look up at the man again with a huff. A knowing grin lifts his too perfect lips into a smile.

I slide my eyes toward the row of taps to my right. “One of those drafts.” I try to resume my task.

“Which one?”

Snapping my head up to the bartender, I press my lips together, swallowing under the heat of his searing gaze. I smirk but make sure to give him a pointed stare. “You pick.”

“Okay.” He pushes off the bar and grabs a frosty glass from the cooler below him, then fills it to the top withone of the draft beers, never taking his attention away from me. His stare burns into my skin, and I’m suddenly unable to focus on what I’m trying to write.

My mind draws a blank again, but this time it’s due to the bartender staring at me.

He grabs a fresh napkin and sets the beer on top of it.

My mouth pulls into a small, closed-lip smile. “Thank you.”

He gives me a slight nod in response, then lowers his gaze toward my napkin.

“Having trouble?”

“Oh.” I drop my shoulders and sit back against the stool, my mouth turning down into a frown. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” His eyebrows shoot up, revealing more of his cerulean blue eyes. “Doesn’t look like it’s nothing to me.”

“Why do you say that?” I cock my head to the side, intrigued.

“The way your eyebrows pulled together, and the way you tucked your lip under your teeth. The way you were tapping your pen against the counter.” He clears his throat, as though suddenly aware of what he’s saying. “You were looking at that napkin as if your life depended on it.”

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