3. George
Chapter 3
George
The whiskey burns a path down my throat, hitting my empty stomach like liquid fire. But it isn’t enough to drown out my troubled thoughts.
Tonight, I don’t want to think about my dad controlling my every move like I’m a damn fugitive. Or the deputy he thinks is the perfect match for me.
I slam the glass onto the sticky bar top and nod at the bartender for another.
The Honey Pot in Silverpaw Hollow is a good place to blend in, and it’s far enough from Clover Canyon that I won't run into anyone who will report back to my father. Exactly what I need.
A strong, capable hand slides a tumbler of whiskey beside my empty glass. “You look like you need this more than I do.”
The deep, steady baritone slides over my skin like warm molasses.
Don’t encourage him.
“I don't need saving,” I say, already planning my comeback for his next cheesy line.
Except when I turn, my carefully crafted snark dies in my throat.
Well, damn.
He's devastating in that quiet way that doesn't need to announce itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, with watchful hazel eyes that catch the bar's dim light. Not conventionally handsome. He has too many hard edges for that. But he’s magnetic in a way that makes it hard to look away.
I take in the details: how his black t-shirt stretches across his chest, the controlled strength in his movements, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. A jagged scar traces a thin line near his temple, disappearing into his dark hair. Something about him radiates danger and competence in equal measure.
He's nothing like the cookie-cutter deputy my father keeps pushing on me—all polish, no substance. This man looks like he's weathered storms and come out stronger.
I catch myself staring at his mouth—the slight curve that suggests he's used to getting what he wants. Something hot and unexpected flares in my core, a pull of attraction I haven't felt in longer than I care to admit.
The realization hits me with unsettling clarity: I'm drawn to him. A complete stranger in a backwoods bar, and my body's already betraying me with a rush of heat that has nothing to do with the whiskey.
“Wasn't trying to save you." His smile deepens, revealing a hint of dimple that should be illegal. "But it seemed like a shame to let you drink alone.”
Maybe I like drinking alone.” The words come out sharp and defensive, even as I reach for the proffered whiskey and lift it to my lips. It slides down easily, bathing my throat with golden heat.
He tilts his head, studying me with dangerous interest as he settles onto the barstool next to mine. My whole body is suddenly aware of him—the clean scent of his soap and leather and something darker underneath, causing heat to pool low in my belly.
“Maybe you do,” he says finally, a smile still playing on his lips. “But you don't look like you're enjoying it much. You're just good at making yourself do it.”
Rude. And far too observant.
Two can play at this game. I meet his gaze deliberately this time. “You don't know anything about what I enjoy.”
“You're right.” He shifts closer, and my body betrays me by leaning into his heat. “I don’t know what you enjoy. Yet.”
That yet hangs between us, loaded with promise.
His eyes darken, his gaze dropping to where I’m gripping the glass. “Something’s on your mind. Want to talk about it?”
I take another deliberate sip of the whiskey. “No offense, but I came here specifically to avoid talking about it.”
“Fair enough.” He lounges back, all casual grace and coiled strength. His t-shirt pulls across broad shoulders, and I catch myself staring at the flex of his forearms as he lifts his drink to his full lips. “What would you rather do instead?”
Warmth crawls up my neck as his gaze tracks the movement of my throat when I swallow. I meet his gaze, forcing myself to hold it. “You’re trouble.”
He doesn't deny it. Instead, he leans in slightly, and I unconsciously mirror the movement. “Yet you don't seem like a woman who minds a little trouble.”
I shouldn’t react to that, but his deep rumble ignites a rash of goosebumps over my skin, betraying me. My pulse kicks up, a reckless beat that echoes the unspoken tension stretching between us.
His fingers brush mine as he reaches for the drink the bartender sets before him. My skin tingles where he touched me, and I instinctively pull away, my heart racing.
He raises the tumbler to his lips and I notice the tiny scars lining his knuckles, making me wonder what kind of trouble he’s seen.
“I don’t mind trouble, but I don't do complications,” I tell him, but I don't move away when his knee brushes mine. “I avoid them like the plague.”
“Who said anything about complications?” His fingers trace the rim of his glass, and I can't stop staring at those hands. Big. Rough. Capable.
I bet he could unscrew a rusted engine bolt with just his fingers.
Not helping, George.
“Maybe I just want to see you smile or know what you sound like when you laugh.” His voice drops lower. “Maybe I want to know what other sounds I can draw out of you.”
Dear God, he knows how to deliver a line. And, yeah, I’m falling for it like a drunk stepping off a curb in six-inch heels—not that I own shoes that tall. Battered cowboy boots are more my style.
“You're very sure of yourself.”
His smile turns wicked. “Maybe that’s because I know what I want.”
“Does this usually work for you?” I ask, aiming for dismissive but landing closer to breathless. “Buy a girl a drink? Play the mysterious stranger?”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. “Nothing mysterious about what I want.”
My pulse kicks harder. “And what's that?”
“You.” He says it simply, directly. No games, no clever lines. Just heat and intent that makes my stomach flip. “But you're fighting it.”
I am. God help me, I am.
I swallow hard. “Why me?”
His lips quirk like he expected the question. “Because you look like you need a distraction.” His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. “And I want to see what happens when you stop thinking.”
Bad idea. Terrible timing. Absolutely the wrong man. So why does my pulse spike like I’ve already said yes?
One night. No complications. No regrets. That’s what he’s offering. And I didn’t know until this moment that it’s exactly what I want. What I need .
“No names. No personal details,” I say, trying to sound worldly and detached as if I’ve done this a thousand times before when I haven’t done anything like it. Ever
Something flickers in his eyes. Understanding? “If that's what you need to tell yourself.” His thumb traces my wrist, gentle but deliberate. “You're not casual. Just hurt.” His gaze holds mine, unflinching. “I'll make you forget that hurt. Tonight.”
His voice deepens to a near growl. “And I promise, once I’m done with you, you won’t be able to pretend it didn’t matter.”
Shit. Am I really doing this? Did I put on deodorant this morning? Oh, God, what if I smell like the inside of my car? That musty, slightly sour mix of forgotten fast food wrappers and the mildewed beach towels I discovered in my trunk last week.
Maybe if I subtly lift my arm—nope, not subtle. Abort. And when did I last trim my foo? Yesterday. Yep. Okay, that’s good. No panty sideburns.
His hand finds my hip, his thumb pressing into a sensitive spot that almost makes me squirm. “I have a room upstairs.”
Upstairs. That makes it easy.
His voice holds no hesitation or uncertainty, just pure, unshakable confidence, as if he can feel how my body reacts to him before I’ve even given him my answer.
My pulse pounds against my throat, and his eyes darken as he tracks the movement. His grip on my hip tightens, just enough to let me know he’s in control but not enough to keep me here if I want to run.
But I don’t.
His thumb continues to circle and press against my warm flesh. My breath rushes out in a shaky exhale. Flames lick my skin, spreading outward in a slow, intoxicating wave. I know this is reckless. I know I should think this through. But his touch makes me forget every reason to stop.
I glance up, meeting his gaze. The way he focuses on me as if I’m the only person in the bar makes me forget every reason to stop.
This man could wreck me. He could undo me. And yet…
I want him to.
I almost get up and leave. But his other hand slides into my hair, gentle but firm, and everything in me surrenders.
The tension between us shifts and thickens. My body moves before my brain can argue. I slide off the barstool and grab his wrist. Solid muscle, warm skin.
My lips part, my voice a whisper, almost drowned out by the thudding in my ears. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Just for tonight, I tell myself. One night to let go, to be reckless with a stranger who makes my blood hum. Tomorrow, I'll go back to pretending to be the sensible, put-together daughter of the Sheriff—the one who follows the rules, who keeps things under control.
And I’ll never see him again.