Page 8 of Blocked Shot
NATALIE
Natalie swirls the last sip of wine in her glass, feeling the pleasant buzz settle into her limbs. The drink has made her a little braver than usual, not reckless, but enough to smooth out the edges of her thoughts and loosen her usually-guarded tongue. Across the table, Jake orders another beer without hesitation, and when the bartender raises a questioning brow at her, she nods.
Natalie had every intention of doing exactly what Mila told her when she first stepped into the bar. She’d chosen this place for a reason. Huckleberry’s felt familiar in a strange way—a bookish name for someone who clings to stories when real life feels too heavy.
She’d told herself she’d sit down, have a drink, maybe chat with the bartender, and see what happened. Low stakes. Easy enough. But as soon as she stepped inside, the warmth of conversation and laughter pressed in from all directions, and she hesitated. She paused near the door, pretending to check her phone like she wasn’t silently debating whether to turn around. After a few awkward beats, she slid onto an empty barstool and ordered a glass of wine, letting the background chatter wash over her. The idea of approaching someone, of forcing herself into a conversation, had suddenly felt exhausting. So instead, she pulled out her book and let the noise fade away.
Still, her eyes kept drifting to the guy a few stools down, no matter how many times she told herself to quit staring. He sat with his legs spread, beer held lazily in one hand, attention flicking between the TV and his phone. His dark blond hair fell in loose waves to his shoulders, the strands catching the light like warm gold. When he turned, she caught the sharp edge of his jaw, scruff rough enough to make her wonder how it would feel against her skin. But it was his eyes that got her—an intense, clear blue that seemed to see more than they let on.
Sitting with Jake at a little table in the corner, the contrast between then and now makes her head spin. One minute she was working up the nerve to strike up a conversation with literally anyone, and now she’s somehow sitting here, chatting like it’s no big deal with the exact guy she’d been sneaking looks at all night.
Their conversation is surprisingly effortless. She did not expect to laugh so much, but Jake has a way of keeping things light, of teasing her enough to draw her out of her usual cautiousness. Faint smile lines crease the corners of his eyes, proof that he’s laughed a lot—even if everything else about him says he’s the serious type.
Natalie swirls the dark red liquid in her glass, tilting her head as she eyes Jake with playful skepticism. “You know, for a guy who works in construction, you are awfully mysterious.”
He letsout a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I promise I’m not a serial killer.”
She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Exactly what a serial killer would say.”
“Is that how I lure my victims, then? By scaring off sketchy guys as a way to get women to trust me?”
“Diabolical. I think I saw that on SVU once.”
He smirks. “And yet, you’re still here.”
She takes a slow sip of her drink, ignoring the warmth creeping up her neck. “Morbid curiosity.”
Jake chuckles, shaking his head. “Right. Nothing to do with my charm, then?”
Natalie rolls her eyes dramatically, but her smile gives her away. “Not even a little.”
She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to focus—on anything but him. He’s too attractive. Stupidly attractive.
Her eyes wander, uninvited, taking in the broad stretch of his chest, the way his shirt hugs solid muscle, the quiet flex of his biceps as he shifts.
Heat prickles up her neck as it dawns on her just how blatantly she’s staring.
God. Get a grip, Nat.
But her brain’s already gone rogue—flashing images of what it would feel like to be pulled against that chest, to have those strong arms lock around her, all strength and heat and no escape.
A shiver runs through her. She’s not proud of it. But oh, she feels it.
She stares at the bar, forcing a breath, but the warmth suffusing her cheeks refuses to fade.
Men like him rarely talk to women like her, not unless they’re bored or looking for something specific.
The thought sends a thrill laced with a twinge of unease through her. He’s bought her drinks. Two, now. She shifts in her chair, suddenly unsure. Did he expect something in return? That was how these things worked, wasn’t it? Or was he taking pity on the sad, lonely spinster at the bar? She is not particularly good at flirting. She has been sofocused on keeping herself and Jesse afloat these past few years that sexual partners, casual or otherwise, have been few and far between.
Jake leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You’re thinking too hard about something.”
Natalie shakes her head, pushing the thought away. “Nothing important.”
He watches her for a moment, as if weighing whether to push for more. “You keep looking at me like I’m going to eat you,” he says.
She exhales, shaking her head. “No, it’s just?—”
“—You’re trying to figure me out,” he finishes for her. “I get it. But trust me, I’m not that complicated.”
