“Mm-hmm,” is all she says.
Bailey is the only person in town who hasn’t fallen all over herself to tell me what a hero I am since I got home. She doesn’t gawk at me like I’m a rare animal in a zoo.
She works quietly and I try to keep my eyes from straying to her, wondering why she went from chatting happily to shutting down the moment I sat at her bar.
“MIA for two weeks, huh?” Gary starts in, and I see Bailey roll her eyes as she polishes a pint glass to a clear shine.
“Yup.”
“How was that?”
Oh, good. The only thing anyone talks to me about anymore.
“Gary!” Bailey’s hands fall to her sides and a look of pure shock paints her face.
“What?”
“You can’t just ask things like that.”
“Why not?”
I can’t help it. I chuckle and decide to rescue Bailey from feeling like she needs to save me. “Real warm. Got a nice tan.”
The man narrows his eyes, movements a little sloppy. I wonder how long he’s been here since it’s barely after lunch and he’s clearly wrecked. “Heard you got burned. Not the tan I’d be hoping for.”
“Ga-ry.” Based on the way Bailey enunciates his name, this line of questioning truly horrifies her.
My palm slides across the bar, drawing her attention. “It’s okay. Everyone knows about the burns.”
She blinks, eyes suddenly a little glassy.
“Really, I’d rather people shoot straight than kiss my ass or tiptoe around me. Why do you think I’m hiding out here in the middle of the day?”
“Because Bailey is the best bartender in town!”
She snorts, lips tipping up as she goes back to polishing a glass. I try to remember if I’ve ever really seen her smile. I’m not sure I have. She’s always busy trying to blend into the background, and I’m only ever here when it’s busy. I don’t even know if I’ve ever heard her voice properly until now. There’s a melodic tone to it—a gentleness—that’s almost soothing.
I’m sick of people talking to me, but it strikes me that listening to Bailey talk might not be so bad.
The first sip of my beer goes down cold and refreshing. And I sigh as it does, feeling a weight come off my shoulders in the presence of the town drunk and the town pariah.
I recognize them as kindred spirits now, a misfit in my own home.
“Third-degree burns on my feet,” I announce, since bluntness seems to be the theme here today. “Skin grafts.”
“S’okay. You can find some girl with a weird foot fetish who will love that shit.”
Bailey props her hands on the edge of the bar and drops her head with a groan. “Jesus Christ, Gary. No more booze.”
“So long as your dick is okay.” He waves his hand up and down my body. “Face seems fine, wouldn’t you say, Bails? You’ll be alright, kid. You’ll find someone to love ya.”
Even drunk, Gary stumbled into a sore spot. I’ve never considered myself to be vain or obsessed with my appearance. I haven’t needed to be. Good genes and having to stay fit for my job have served me well.
Who’d have thought scarred feet would be the thing to skewer my confidence? Fucking feet. Like they even matter. It could have been so much worse. I should feel grateful. And yet …
Bailey’s gaze wanders over my features. And mine does the same with hers. Where the light touches it, her dark hair has a mahogany-like shine. It’s silky and smooth, falling in layers from her long bangs at her chin to her shoulder and then further down her back. It doesn’t look like Bailey cuts her hair often either. I’m drawn back to lashes so thick and black they remind me of one of those vintage dolls. She’s not wearing a stitch of makeup, revealing a light smattering of freckles on her nose.
A warm blush paints her cheeks when she softly replies, “Yeah,” and then blinks away.
Her eyes, that one little word—it … makes my blood pump faster.
It makes me feel something in a sea of numbness.
My throat bobs as I swallow the dryness in my mouth, trying to push the moment away. Maybe I’m not ready to feel anything after all.
I take another sip and wonder if maybe I’ll be able to sleep for more than a few hours tonight if I toss back a couple of pints.
Then I take another sip and swipe a hand over my stubbled chin before I turn to Gary. “Love is the last thing I need. But this beer is hitting the spot. Thanks, Gary.”
Talking to him seems safe enough. Safer than talking to Bailey Jansen, who watches me just a little too closely with those big fucking doe eyes.