Chapter 5 - Harper
I can't believe I'm here.
Can't believe I walked back into this bar after what happened last night. Can't believe I actually said those words—*start over*—to a man whose name I don't even know. A man who had his fingers inside me less than twenty-four hours ago.
What the hell am I starting over? What is there to start?
The words came out before I could process them, tumbling from my mouth like they had a mind of their own.
But now they're hanging in the air between us, and I can't take them back.
Can't pretend I didn't just ask this stranger for a second chance at.
.. what? A relationship? A hookup? Something in between?
He fingered me in a bathroom. That's all that happened. We don't know each other. He doesn't know my name, doesn't know where I'm from, doesn't know about Derek or Jessica or the wedding that didn't happen or any of the spectacular mess that brought me to this tiny Montana town.
And I don't know anything about him except that he has magic fingers and a smile that makes my knees weak.
I should leave. Should apologize for wasting his time and go back to my motel room where I belong. Because what kind of pathetic woman shows up at a bar trying to reconnect with a man she ran away from, only two days after calling off her wedding?
But he's looking at me like he's happy I'm here. Actually happy. His dark eyes are warm, that devastating smile is wide and genuine, and he hasn't looked away from me once since I walked in.
When's the last time a man looked at me like this? Like I'm someone worth smiling about?
Not Derek. Derek looked at me with obligation. With tolerance. With the expression of a man who'd settled for what was convenient rather than what he wanted.
But this stranger, this player who probably has a different woman every weekend, is looking at me like I just made his entire night by walking through that door.
And maybe I'm pathetic for wanting that. Maybe I'm an idiot for being here at all. But God, I deserve this, don't I? Deserve someone who looks at me like I'm worth looking at. Deserve to feel wanted instead of tolerated.
Deserve to feel something other than the crushing humiliation that's been my constant companion since I walked in on my fiancé balls-deep in my best friend.
"So," he says, that smile still playing at his lips. "How do we start over?"
I open my mouth, then close it again. "I... I don't actually know."
He laughs, a genuine laugh that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "How about we start with names? I'm Colt."
Colt. It fits him somehow. Strong and a little wild, like something untamed.
"Harper," I offer, and it feels significant somehow, exchanging names. Making this real instead of just an anonymous encounter in a bathroom.
"Harper," he repeats, testing it out. "Pretty name."
"Thanks." I'm blushing again, I can feel it, heat crawling up my neck. "So, um..."
"Want to get a drink?" He gestures toward the bar. "Actually sit down and talk this time instead of—"
"Instead of you fingering me in a bathroom while someone's washing their hands ten feet away?" The words come out before I can stop them, and my eyes go wide. "Oh my God, I can't believe I just said that out loud."
But Colt just grins wider. "I was gonna say 'instead of rushing things,' but yeah, that works too."
I cover my face with my hands, mortified. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually... I don't normally..."
"Hey." His voice is gentler now, and I feel his hand on my wrist, pulling my hands away from my face. "It's okay. I'm not exactly known for taking things slow either."
I meet his eyes, and there's understanding there. No judgment, no shame, just acceptance of what happened between us.
"Beer?" he asks again.
"Yeah," I breathe. "Beer sounds good."
He keeps his hand on my wrist as we walk to the bar. Not quite holding hands, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his palm, the calluses on his fingers. The same fingers that were inside me last night, the same ones that nearly made me come in a public bathroom.
I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore the responding pulse of heat between my legs.
The bartender looks between us as we approach. "Well, look who came back."
"Sarah, this is Harper," Colt says. "Harper, Sarah pretty much runs this place."
"Nice to meet you," I manage, even though Sarah's looking at me like she can see right through my clothes to all my secrets.
"Two beers," Colt tells her, then glances at me. "Unless you want something else?"
"Beer's fine."
Sarah pulls two bottles from the cooler, pops the caps, and slides them across the bar. "You two want a table? Corner's free."
"Perfect." Colt picks up both bottles and nods toward the back of the bar.
I follow him to a small table tucked in the corner. It's private enough that we can talk without shouting over the music, but not so isolated that it feels like we're hiding. He pulls out a chair for me, and I'm surprised by the gesture. Derek never pulled out chairs.
Damn it. I need to stop thinking about Derek.
I sit, and Colt takes the seat across from me, sliding one of the beers in my direction. For a moment, we just look at each other, and I'm aware of how surreal this is. Last night I was running away from him. Today I'm sitting across from him like we're on some kind of date.
Are we on a date? Is this a date?
"So," Colt says, wrapping his hand around his beer bottle. "Starting over. That means we probably shouldn't talk about what happened last night, right?"
"Probably not," I agree, even though it's the only thing I can think about.
"Okay." He leans back in his chair, looking at me with those dark eyes. "Tell me about you, Harper. What brings you to Blackwater Falls?"
And there it is. The question I knew was coming, but I don't know how to answer.
I could lie. Could make up some story about always wanting to visit Montana, about being on a road trip, about anything other than the truth.
But something about the way he's looking at me, open and genuinely interested, makes me want to be honest.
"I'm running away," I say simply.
His eyebrows raise. "From?"
"My life." I take a sip of beer, using it as an excuse to look away from his intense gaze. "Or what was supposed to be my life, anyway."
"That's pretty vague."
"Yeah." I set the bottle down, tracing patterns in the condensation. "I'm not sure I'm ready to talk about it yet. Is that okay?"
"Completely okay." He doesn't push, doesn't press for details. Just accepts my boundary like it's the most natural thing in the world. "What about Blackwater Falls specifically? Why here?"
That I can answer. "My dad grew up here. He passed away a few years ago, but he always talked about this place. Made it sound... I don't know. Safe, I guess."
"I'm sorry about your dad." Colt's voice is sincere, no platitudes or empty condolences. "Was he right? Does it feel safe?"
I consider this. "I don't know yet. I only got here yesterday."
"Yesterday?" He leans forward, interested. "So, last night at the bar was your first night in town?"
"Yeah." I can feel myself blushing again. "Not exactly the best first impression to make."
"I don't know." That smile is back, the one that does stupid things to my insides. "I thought it was a pretty memorable first impression."
"Memorable isn't always good."
"True." He tilts his head, "But in this case? Definitely good. At least from my perspective."
"Even though I ran away?"
"Even though." He takes a drink, then sets his bottle down. "For what it's worth, I get it now. Starting over in a new place, trying to escape whatever you're running from, probably not the best time to hook up with a stranger in a bathroom."
"Probably not," I agree softly.
"But you came back anyway."
"I did."
"Why?"
It's a fair question. One I've been asking myself all day. Why did I come back? Why am I sitting here having a beer with a man I barely know when I should be home licking my wounds and planning my future?
"Because I wanted to see you again," I admit. "And because... because you made me feel something other than miserable for the first time in days. And I know that's probably not fair to you, using you as a distraction or whatever, but—"
"Hey." He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. "I don't mind being a distraction. Especially if it means I get to sit here talking to you instead of dancing with someone I don't give a shit about."
I pull my hand back, wrapping it around my beer bottle instead.
"You could be dancing with one of those girls, though.
The pretty ones. The skinny ones." I gesture vaguely toward the dance floor where several women are moving to the music, all of them effortlessly beautiful in that way I've never managed to be.
Colt follows my gaze, then looks back at me with a confused expression. "Why would I want to do that?"
"Because they're... I mean, look at them." I take a long drink, liquid courage. "They're gorgeous. And I'm..." I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding pathetic.
"You're what?" He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're the best-looking woman in this entire bar."
I actually laugh at that. Can't help it. "You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it because I have to. I'm saying it because it's true." His expression is completely serious now. "Harper, I don't care if someone's skinny or not. That's never been what attracts me to a woman."
"Then what does?" The question comes out before I can stop it, and I immediately wish I could take it back. Too personal. Too revealing of my own insecurities.
But he answers anyway. "Confidence. Intelligence. Someone who's real instead of playing games." He pauses. "And yeah, okay, curves don't hurt. But mostly? It's about connection. About actually wanting to talk to someone instead of just going through the motions."
I want to believe him. Want to take his words at face value and accept that maybe, just maybe, he actually does prefer me to those other women.
But there's this voice in the back of my head—Derek's voice, Jessica's voice—telling me he's just saying what I want to hear.
That nobody actually prefers curvy over skinny. That I'm being naive.
"You don't believe me," Colt observes.
"I want to," I admit.
"But?"
"But I've heard pretty words before. From people who turned out to be lying."
He nods slowly, processing this. "The thing you're running from. Someone hurt you."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yeah. Someone did."
"Then they're an idiot." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And I know you don't know me well enough to trust me yet. That's fair. But for what it's worth? I meant what I said. About all of it."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. I take another sip of beer, trying to figure out how to respond. Trying to decide if I can let myself believe him, even just a little bit.
Maybe it is my problem. My lack of self-esteem talking. My inability to accept that someone might actually find me attractive exactly as I am.
I need to change the subject before I spiral completely.
"So," I say, forcing brightness into my voice. "Tell me about Colt. Who are you when you're not fingering strangers in bar bathrooms?"
He grins at that, clearly relieved by the shift in conversation. "Well, I'm a rancher. I co-own Promise Ranch with my brother and four other guys."
"Six owners?" I raise my eyebrows. "That's a lot of cooks in the kitchen."
"Yeah, but it works for us. We all grew up together, more or less. The guy who owned the ranch before us, Frank, he took us all in at different times. When he died, he left it to all of us."
"That's... actually really sweet." I try to picture it. Six men working together, running a ranch, making decisions as a group. "Do you all get along?"
"Mostly." He laughs. "There are definitely arguments. Especially between me and my brother Boone. But at the end of the day, they're my family. The only one that really matters."
"Boone," I repeat. "That's an interesting name."
"Yeah, our parents were apparently really into old Western names. Could've been worse, I guess. Could've been named Wyatt or something."
I smile despite myself. "What's it like? Ranching, I mean."
"Hard work," he says honestly. "Early mornings, long days, dealing with weather and equipment failures and animals that have their own ideas about what they want to do. But it's good work. Honest work. And I can't imagine doing anything else."
There's passion in his voice when he talks about it, genuine love for what he does. It's refreshing after spending years with Derek, who complained constantly about his job but never did anything to change it.
"What about you?" Colt asks. "What do you do? Or what did you do, before you came here?"
"I worked in marketing," I say, and it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Corporate stuff. Lots of meetings and emails and presentations."
"Did you like it?"
I open my mouth to give the automatic yes, then pause. Did I like it? Or did I just do it because it was expected? Because it paid well and looked good on paper and fit the life I was supposed to be building?
"I don't know," I admit. "I thought I did. But now I'm not sure I ever actually stopped to think about whether it made me happy."
"That's honest, at least."
"Yeah." I finish my beer, setting the empty bottle on the table. "Honestly, I don't know what I want anymore. The plan I had for my life just... imploded. And now I'm here, in a town I've never been to, talking to a man I just met, trying to figure out what comes next."
"Sounds terrifying," Colt says, but not unkindly.
"It is," I agree. "But also kind of... freeing? Like maybe I get to choose something different this time. Something that's actually mine instead of what everyone else thinks I should do."
"That's a good way to look at it." He leans back in his chair. "So, what do you want, Harper? If you could do anything, be anyone, what would it be?"
It's a big question. Too big for a Friday night in a bar with a man I barely know. But I find myself actually considering it, turning it over in my mind.
"I don't know yet," I say finally. "But I think that's okay. I think maybe not knowing is part of starting over."
"Fair enough." He stands up, grabbing both our empty bottles. "Want another beer? Or we could get some food if you're hungry. I know a place."
My stomach rumbles at the mention of food, reminding me that I've eaten nothing but ice cream today. "Food sounds good, actually."
"Great." His smile is warm, genuine, and I feel myself relaxing for the first time since I walked in. "And Harper? For what it's worth? I'm glad you came back tonight."
"Yeah," I say softly, surprised to realize I mean it. "Me too."