
Broad Shoulders (The Perfect Man #3)
1. Jackson
1
JACKSON
H ands down, this has to be the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. The lush palm trees, the golden sand, the warm turquoise water…it truly blows my mind that a place this perfect actually exists. Hawaii is damn gorgeous.
Except I’m struggling to fully appreciate it. Because a few minutes ago, I ran into one of my old Stallions teammates and his wife. They’re here on their honeymoon, looking incredibly in love—they’re even expecting a baby. I’m thrilled for them. I really am. I truly meant it when I told them how happy I was for them.
But seeing them also reminded me of how alone I am, and have been for years. For whatever reason, the truth hits differently here.
I leave the beach behind, climbing a short set of wooden steps that lead up to the main road. I pass by one open-air restaurant after another. Each patio is lit with string lights, tables filled with people laughing and talking. A couple feeds each other bites of dessert. A family celebrates what looks like their daughter’s birthday, the little girl beaming as a waiter brings out a cake with a sparkler on top.
Everyone’s with someone. Everyone but me.
I pick up my pace, wanting to get away from these scenes of togetherness. It’s not like I’ve ever been the relationship type anyway. Even during my years with the Stallions, I kept things casual. Marriage was never my endgame. Still isn’t, if I’m being honest with myself.
But still. Some company would be nice.
I hang a right at the next intersection, leaving the tourist strip behind. The side street is quieter, lined with local businesses most tourists probably never see. After a couple of blocks, I spot a building with a weathered wooden sign reading Honu . No neon palm trees. No drink specials advertised out front. Just a simple sign and the low murmur of conversation drifting through an open door.
I step inside and feel my shoulders relax. The lighting is dim but not dark, and there’s a comfortable lived-in quality that no resort bar could ever replicate. The bar isn’t crowded—maybe a dozen people total. I claim an empty stool at the bar, and a guy sitting a few seats down glances over.
“Evening,” he says with a friendly nod. “You get lost, or you come here on purpose?”
“Purposely lost, I guess.”
He chuckles. “I know how that goes.”
I sense someone approaching behind the bar and hear a woman’s voice.
“What can I get you?”
“Whiskey on the—” I turn and my words trail off.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous. The bartender is short and full-figured, her tank top and ripped jean shorts hugging her tanned curves. Her dark hair falls in a thick braid down her back, framing a face with soft cheeks and full lips that hold just a hint of a smile.
“On the what?” Her eyebrow arches, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Rocks? Neat? Straight into your veins?”
“Neat,” I finally manage to say, feeling like a teenager.
She reaches for a bottle, her movements confident and efficient. I try not to stare as she pours my drink. I’m mesmerized by the self-assured way she moves, the small smile playing at the corner of her lips like she knows something the rest of us don’t.
She slides the glass toward me. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
She grabs a cloth and starts wiping down the bar. “First time on the island?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Let’s just say you have that mainland look about you.”
“I’ve wanted to visit for years,” I say. “Just never managed to make it happen until now.”
“You must have been an awfully busy guy to put off paradise this long.”
The guy a few seats down suddenly straightens up, looking at me more closely. “Wait a second. Are you Jackson King?”
“Yep. That’s me.” I take a sip of my whiskey, unsure if it’s a good or bad thing to be recognized.
“I knew you looked familiar!” the guy exclaims. He shakes his head as he looks at the bartender. “Alana, you’re serving drinks to one of the best outfielders in baseball!”
She looks at me, clearly not recognizing my name. “Sorry, I don’t really follow baseball.”
“Are you serious?” The guy seems personally offended. “Jackson was a machine in the outfield. Man, I’ll never forget that diving catch you made in the World Series.”
I laugh, appreciating the enthusiasm. But as much as I enjoy a fan who remembers my glory days, my attention is fixed on Alana. She doesn’t look impressed or unimpressed by the revelation—just curious, her head tilted slightly as she studies me with new interest.
“You don’t play anymore?” she asks.
“Nope. Retired a few years back.”
“And what do you do now?”
If I were being completely honest, I would tell her that I’ve felt lost since hanging up my jersey. That the traveling isn’t just for fun—it’s me searching for something to replace what baseball gave me. A purpose. A reason to get up in the morning that feels as important as the game once did.
Instead, I answer with a shrug. “A little of this, a little of that. My post-baseball identity is still a work in progress.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
A customer at the other end of the bar signals, and she excuses herself. When she’s out of earshot, the guy near me grins. “Don’t go getting any ideas about Alana. She’s sweet with everyone, but that’s just her way. Half the guys who come in here think they have a shot.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, even though my heart is still racing from talking to her.
“Sure you don’t.” His tone is knowing. “Just giving you the local wisdom.”
I spend the next couple of hours nursing my drinks and chatting with the bar’s patrons. A middle-aged couple tells me about the best hidden beaches on the island. A young guy who works as a diving instructor shares stories about the marine life. All the while, I find myself tracking Alana’s movements around the bar, listening when she joins conversations, watching her laugh with the regulars.
She’s good at her job—attentive without hovering, friendly without being fake. I try to stop stealing glances at her, but it’s impossible to pretend like I’m not completely, utterly taken by her.
Around ten, someone switches on the karaoke machine in the corner. A few locals take turns performing, some better than others, but all met with enthusiastic applause from the small crowd. I’m content to watch from my spot at the bar.
But then Alana leans across the bar, nudging my arm with the back of her hand. “Your turn, Superstar.”
“Not a chance,” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m strictly an audience member.”
“Everyone sings,” she insists, her eyes challenging me. “It’s practically the law.”
“It’s true,” the guy a few seats down chimes in. “Visitors especially. Mandatory cultural experience.”
“Come on,” Alana coaxes, looking right at me. “One song won’t kill you.”
The other patrons join in, clapping and encouraging until I finally raise my hands in surrender. “Fine. One song.”
I make my way to the small stage and scroll through the song list, selecting a ballad I know well enough to not embarrass myself. As the music starts, I watch Alana lean against the back counter, an amused smile playing on her lips.
The first words of the song leave my throat. A little off-key, but fuck it. It’s karaoke. I’m standing up here to entertain, not to win a singing contest. That’s all this is.
Except halfway through the first verse, something shifts. My voice grows stronger as I find the melody, and Alana’s smile changes from amused to attentive. She tilts her head slightly, actually listening. The rest of the bar blurs around the edges of my vision until she’s the only thing in clear focus.
Then the chorus hits, and it feels like I’m singing directly to her.
I finish to hooting applause and a wolf whistle from the gorgeous bartender I can’t keep my eyes off of. When I return to my seat, she slides a fresh whiskey toward me. “On the house. You earned it.”
Not too long after that, the bar starts to gradually empty out. I know it’s probably obvious that I’m lingering just for Alana, but if she minds, she doesn’t show it. As they leave, the locals call their goodbyes. The guy who recognized me claps my shoulder as he leaves, telling me to come back tomorrow. I nurse my drink, watching as Alana wipes down surfaces and stacks chairs.
“Last call was twenty minutes ago,” she says when she catches me watching her, but there’s no edge to her voice.
“Just savoring the atmosphere,” I reply, finishing my drink.
She laughs, a warm sound that cuts through the now-quiet bar. “Well, savor it while walking toward the door. We’re closing up.”
I follow her cue, heading outside. The night air is warm and fragrant with tropical flowers. Alana follows shortly after, keys jingling as she locks the front door. She peers over at me, tilting her head.
“Let me guess,” she says. “You’re staying at The Palm?”
“Lucky guess.”
She shakes her head, mock disappointment on her face. “Next time you come to Hawaii, you should stay somewhere with a little more character.”
“Maybe you can recommend a place?”
“Maybe I can.”
We start walking away from the bar together. Glancing at the handful of parked cars along the street, I ask, “Which one is yours?”
“None. I walk to work.”
The protective instinct in me flares up before I can stop it. “You walk home alone at this hour?”
“Every night,” she says, seeming amused by my concern. “It’s perfectly safe here. Everyone knows everyone.”
I glance around again at the quiet street. The neighborhood is undeniably peaceful, the distant sound of waves the only thing breaking the silence. Still, something in me doesn’t like the idea of leaving her on her own. “That might be true, but I’d feel better if you’d let me walk you home.”
She laughs. “Is this your way of inviting yourself over to my place?”
“Not at all,” I say. “Just want to make sure you get home safely.”
She studies me for a moment, then smiles. “Tell you what. I’m enjoying talking to you. How about I walk with you back to your hotel instead? That way we can keep chatting, but no one has to worry about ulterior motives.”
I want to point out that this defeats the whole point, but I’ve got a feeling she’s used to taking care of herself.
“Deal,” I agree.
We walk slowly toward the resort area, neither of us in a rush to end the night. Alana points out local landmarks and businesses, telling me stories about them. When my hotel comes into view, she lets out a low whistle. “Okay, I’ll admit—that is a pretty impressive place.”
“Yeah, but there’s no character to it,” I say with a shake of my head, and Alana’s laugh rings out into the quiet night.
Instead of heading toward the main entrance, we wordlessly veer onto a stone path that winds through the hotel’s sprawling grounds. Twice, her hand almost brushes mine.
“These are white torch ginger,” Alana says, pointing to some unique flowers glowing faintly in the landscape lighting. “They’re not native to Hawaii, but they’ve made themselves at home here. They’re some of my favorite flowers.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Her eyes meet mine. “It’s a good thing you came here, then. Or you would have missed out.”
Never has it felt more right to kiss a woman. I lean in, closing the space between us as I dip my mouth to hers. The warm night air seems to vibrate around us as our lips meet, and when she presses into the kiss, a wild rush of heat surges through me.