“Don’t know when you got so lippy,” he grumbles, dropping his pint glass away from his mouth. “You barely used to talk to anyone. Now you’re bossing me around like a little tyrant all the time.”
Shiny, almost-black hair swishes over Bailey Jansen’s tanned shoulders. Her back is to us as she bends down to pull glasses out of the small washing machine behind the bar.
“Got comfortable, I guess. And you could use some bossing, old man. Sitting here, harassing me every day.”
“I do no such thing. I’m perfectly nice to you. One of the few who is, I reckon.”
She spins now, white towel in hand, to point at her only customer in the quiet bar. “You are. And I consider you a friend, which is why I tell you every day you drink too damn much.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, dark eyes widening in surprise, like she didn’t hear me arrive over the country music and hum of the dishwasher.
“If I stop, you’ll be out of work. And maybe even a friend.”
Gary is talking to her like he hasn’t noticed my presence, but she responds to him without looking away from me. “I can live with that, Gar.” She pauses, tongue darting out over parted lips.
Full, glossy lips.
“Beau Eaton. Nice to see you.”
The man turns, now alerted to my presence. “Well shit, that is Beau Eaton, isn’t it? Big fella, aren’t you?” Gary slurs, and Bailey’s free hand darts forward to swipe his keys off the bar.
Gary’s eyes close and he groans. “Every fuckin’ day.”
“Yep. Every fuckin’ day.” She shoves them into her back pocket and then turns back to the washing machine, where glassware has backed up. “Beau, what can I get you? Got anyone joining you? Probably want your favorite couch, yeah?”
I swallow and glance at the couch where my brothers, friends, and I enjoyed many a night out. It feels like a different version of myself sat there. The new Beau sits at the bar with the shy neighbor girl, who wears a pair of acid-wash Levi’s better than anyone he’s ever seen.
And the sad town drunk.
“Nah, just me today. I’ll have whatever Gary here is having.”
“A Buddyz Best for the town hero!” Gary slaps his palm on the bar, and I flinch at the sudden noise. At the label. I could crumple under the weight of everyone regarding at me like I belong on some sort of pedestal. Everyone is always watching me.
I stare at his weathered hand, flush against the polished wood of the bar top. My eyes close for a beat and I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth to keep from grinding my molars. When I lift my gaze, forcing myself to act casual, Bailey’s got her brows drawn tight, dark irises boring into my face as though she has me all figured out. The flat smile I force onto my lips doesn’t seem to impress her. In fact, before she turns away to pour me a frothy pint, her head shakes subtly, like she’s disappointed.
My gaze trails over her body again, and I rack my brain to remember the last time I saw her. She’s always been sweet, shy little Bailey Jansen. Sadly, born into the least respected family in town. Her dad and brothers have dabbled in it all—drugs, prison, theft—and her mom took off years ago.
Worst of all, their land borders ours. I can see it from my house on the ranch, just on the other side of the river, where I’ve put up a barbed-wire fence, so those assholes know where to turn back around.
But Bailey has always been different in my eyes.
I’ve always felt bad for her, always felt protective of her from afar. The stares, the whispers. I imagine living in a small town where almost every resident has a story about your family must be fucking brutal. So, I’ve always been nice to her. I like her—have no reason not to—even though I barely know her.
She’s worked at The Railspur for years now, I just … can’t remember how many. Can’t decide if enough years have passed for me to notice the way her tank top lifts today, showing a peek of skin on her flat stomach. Or for me to think about the way her perfectly round breasts would fit so well in my hands.
“How long you been working here, Bailey?” I ask, watching her shoulders go a little tense when I do.
She clears her throat. “Just over four years. Started at eighteen.”
Twenty-two.
Fuck. I’m thirty-five, which means I was a teenager when—I brush the thought away and drop my eyes as she tosses a coaster down in front of me, followed by a pint of golden lager, white foam spilling over the edge.
“Thanks,” I grumble as I swipe a hand through my hair.