Page 4 of Chasing Wildflowers
I don’t live in fear.
I don’t jump at loud sounds.
…Well. Usually.
The door swings open again. Sunlight pours in like a warning flare, blinding me for a second.
And then I see him.
My pulse trips before my mind can catch up.
Storm-gray eyes lock on mine. Steady and assessing. It’s like all of the oxygen has been sucked from the room. Tattoos crawl up his throat into a neatly trimmed beard and extend down both of his musculararms. Ink winding over his hands until I can’t tell where skin ends and art begins. He’s sin wrapped in denim, and every nerve in my body votes yes.
But there’s something else, something too sharp in the way his gaze lingers. Recognition. Or danger. Maybe both.
The door closes behind him. His stride is steady, purposeful, as he closes the distance between us.
I take him in fully. Tousled black hair falls just enough to make you think he doesn’t care, though I’d bet money he does. The glint of a nose ring catches the light; one tiny, reckless detail that makes him look like he plays by his own rules.
I grip the bar so I don't stumble over my ovaries. “What c-can I get you?” I stammer and mentally slap myself.
Jesus, Lane.
His mouth tilts into a knowing smirk. Oh yeah, this man knows the effect he has on women. And I am not immune.
“Whiskey. Top shelf.” His voice is low and smooth. Command wrapped in velvet.
God help me.
I pour the drink, trying to act like a functional human, not a puddle of hormones. He’s just a man. A beautiful man. But still, just a man.
I slide the glass across the bar and he takes it without looking away, the weight of the stare pinning me in place.
The longer he looks, the more certain I am that he's trying to place me. My pulse spikes again, beating too fast, too hard.
You’re just being paranoid because of the unwelcome flashbacks. Nobody would look for Ceciley here.
I force a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
I retreat down the bar, needing distance. Space from his scent; leather, mountain air, and something crisp that doesn’t belong in a place that reeks of cigarettes and spilled beer.
“Who’s that?” Hank asks, nodding toward the stranger at the end of the bar.
“Didn’t get a name.” I shrug, sneaking a peek. “Didn’t seem chatty.”
“Looks like bad news.” Hank gives him a sidelong glance.
“You think anyone with tattoos is bad news.”
“Everyone but you, darling.” He grins, but his gaze stays wary.
A few minutes later, the door squeaks again. I glance up and the stranger’s eyes catch mine, brief and searing like lightning. Then he’s gone, the door shutting behind him, leaving his empty glass and a few bills on the bar.
A chill runs down my spine.
It’s just memories of the past messing with you. You’re safe, Lane. You’re safe.
Two
