Chapter 1-Micah
I sigh.
“Damn it,” I sigh. “Open window.”
The command wakes my primary monitor.
One tap on the keyboard.
Another.
A secure browser opens.
Not because I'm spying.
Because I'm surveilling.
That's what I tell myself, anyway.
The Watering Hole's social media page loads first.
Nothing new.
Sloane posted today's lunch special three hours ago.
Smoked brisket sandwich.
Fresh-cut fries.
Homemade coleslaw.
Twenty-seven comments.
Four hundred likes.
That’s normal engagement.
I switch windows.
The Main Street feed refreshes.
And there she is.
Sloane O'Brien.
My eyes find her before I even think about looking.
That ought to bother me.
Hell, the fact I know exactly which camera she'll appear on and roughly what time she'll walk into frame ought to bother me too.
This?
This isn't normal.
I'm bordering on obsession.
Maybe worse.
If somebody looked over my shoulder right now, they'd probably call it stalking.
I'd call it making sure she's okay.
Tomato.
Tomahto.
My therapist would be having a field day with this one if I still saw the fucker—I don’t.
After I was discharged, I walked away from military life free and clear.
No real physical damage.
Just a few scars.
And a couple of salt of the earth friends, who are now my business partners.
Objectively?
Life’s been pretty damn good to me.
But there’s something about her, about Sloane, that I can’t shake.
Something that makes me watch her.
Something I can’t let go of just yet.
I lean back in my chair, crossing one boot over the other as she comes into focus on the monitor.
The late afternoon sun catches her hair, setting the red strands ablaze like burnished copper as they spill from a high ponytail and sway between her shoulder blades.
She's wearing jeans that hug her generous hips, work boots that have seen better days, and one of those fitted black Watering Hole T-shirts that somehow makes her look equal parts adorable and dangerous.
Six forty-eight.
Twelve minutes earlier than yesterday.
Eight earlier than Monday.
I don't consciously remember her schedule anymore.
I just know it.
That realization lands somewhere uncomfortable.
I should close the feed.
Go unpack another box.
Finish wiring the server room.
I should be doing literally anything else.
Instead?
I zoom in.
She disappears inside for less than a minute before backing back out, bending at the knees to lift two stacked liquor crates against her chest.
My jaw tightens.
I know exactly how much those weigh.
Forty-eight pounds each.
I looked up the distributor after watching her unload them by herself a couple months ago.
Nearly a hundred pounds.
On a woman who's barely five-foot-four.
“You stubborn little thing,” I mutter to the empty cabin.
She shifts the crates higher against her soft body, one boot slipping slightly on the asphalt before she steadies herself and marches toward the back entrance.
No hesitation.
No complaint.
No asking for help.
That's Sloane.
She'd rather struggle than inconvenience somebody else.
I've noticed.
Hell.
I've noticed entirely too much.
The way she tucks loose strands of hair behind her left ear when she's concentrating.
How she hums old country songs while wiping down the bar.
The fact that she remembers every regular's drink before they order it.
She even tips the pizza delivery kid thirty percent every single Friday even though he's only carrying the boxes fifteen feet from his car to the door.
I’ve seen this woman apologize when someone bumps into her.
I know when she's tired. She does this thing where she rubs the back of her neck.
And when she's worried? She bites the inside of her cheek.
But it’s her happiness that guts me. Every. Single. Time.
When she laughs—a real laugh, not the polite bartender smile she gives customers—her entire face changes.
And that joy? I know she feels it to her marrow, even if it’s only temporary.
Truth is, I shouldn't know any of that.
But I do.
Because one night a beer with Benji and Sawyer and their women turned into two.
Then it was wings and brews on Fridays.
Then it was dropping in for a cold one on Thursday nights when they have live bands.
And stopping by after supposed runs to town for the occasional burger and a Bud.
I don’t even like beer.
But what the hell is a guy supposed to do when the object of his obsession owns a bar?
I started checking cameras when I wasn't even in town just after our third meeting.
Christ.
I really need to get a grip.
But I’m still sitting here. Still watching.
A pickup rolls into the alley behind the bar.
Patrick—her shithead brother.
My mood sours immediately.
He parks crooked.
Leaves the engine running.
Climbs out empty-handed.
Sloane's still carrying those damn crates. I watch her stop and rub her chest, and I frown.
She has asthma.
Seasonal.
Allergy induced.
And it’s been hot out—really fucking hot.
Heat and humidity are a bad mix for her.
She shouldn’t be exerting herself like that.
And Patrick?
That prick doesn't so much as glance in her direction.
Doesn't offer to take the weight.
Doesn't even hold the fucking door.
Instead, he starts talking before she's even close enough to hear him, pointing toward something inside the building like she's an employee instead of the woman whose name is on every legal document I've managed to dig up.
Piece of shit.
I've spent enough years reading body language to recognize a control freak.
Patrick O'Brien isn't just controlling.
He's a nasty bastard.
He invades her space.
Talks over her.
Answers questions directed at her.
Collects the cash.
Makes decisions.
This asshole acts like he’s the king of a kingdom that isn't even his.
I know because I checked.
And according to every public record I could legally access The Watering Hole belongs to Sloane.
Not him. Never him.
Her name is on the deed.
Her name is on the liquor license.
Her name is on the business registration.
Every square inch of that place is hers.
So why does she keep letting him rule it?
Why does she automatically make herself smaller whenever he steps into her space?
Why does she look over her shoulder before making even the smallest decision?
The numbers don't add up.
Neither do the people.
And that's what keeps me coming back.
Not because she's beautiful.
And believe me—she is.
Sloane is so fucking pretty I get tongue-tied when I look at her.
She’s a natural redhead, and that fiery mane of hers? It’s wild.
Curly. Long.
I want to wrap it around my fist and pull her head back so I can lick my way from her mouth down to her glorious cleavage I’ve peeked a few times when she’s worn lower cut tops—not that she dresses provocatively.
She doesn’t.
But I know I’d love it if she did.
She’s the kind of curvy that makes guys like me want to spend hours exploring all her peaks and valleys.
Fuck, now I’m sitting here with half a hard-on and it’s not because I can't stop thinking about the way her freckles dance across her nose every time she smiles.
Though I can't.
It's because I’m wondering how far down those freckles go.
Do they go all the way down?
Do they get darker when she’s excited?
Fuck.
I give my cock a squeeze, willing the damn thing to behave.
I want to act on those impulses, but I don’t.
Not yet.
Because something's wrong.
I know it.
I can feel it.
The same instinct that kept me alive overseas—the one that whispered don't go through that door or that truck doesn't belong here—is whispering again.
Something about Sloane O'Brien doesn't fit.
Something in her life is out of place.
And I hate unsolved puzzles.
The scary part?
I'm not sure anymore if I'm watching because I think she's in danger...
Or because somewhere along the way, watching her became the best part of my day.
I stare at the monitor for a few seconds longer than I should.
Then I sigh.
“Yeah,” I tell the empty cabin. “That's probably not healthy.”
But I don't close the feed.
I just keep watching.
This has to stop.
I know it. But I can’t seem to make myself turn that monitor off.
I don't flirt.
Don't date.
Hell, I barely talk.
Women deserve more than a man who spends twelve hours a day staring at monitors and another six convincing himself the nightmares aren't real.
PTSD doesn't make for good company.
Neither does the kind of work I still do after hours.
I'm not Sawyer.
I'm not Benji.
I'm the guy they call when something's already gone sideways.
The fixer.
The ghost.
The one who notices things other people miss.
Like the dark SUV I spy parked across the street from her bar.
It wasn't there yesterday.
New Jersey plates.
Tinted windows.
Engine running.
Driver never gets out.
I zoom in.
Can't see his face.
He leaves exactly four minutes later.
My fingers stop moving.
There it is.
That feeling.
The one that kept me alive overseas.
The itch between my shoulder blades.
The whisper that says something's wrong.
Maybe it's nothing.
Maybe he's waiting for someone.
Maybe I'm seeing patterns where there aren't any.
Or maybe...
Maybe my instincts are right.
I lean back in my chair.
Eyes still fixed on the screen as Sloane goes back to her ancient van and grabs one more box before locking it.
She never noticed the SUV.
But I did.
And that’ll do.
“No one's getting to you, Princess,” I say quietly to the empty room.
She can't hear me.
Doesn't know I'm watching.
Doesn't know I exist outside the quiet cowboy who drinks beer in her bar occasionally and leaves a bigger tip than anyone else.
And that’s good.
I'd like to keep it that way.
But if somebody thinks they're coming after Sloane O'Brien?
They're going to find out something about me real quick.
Because the quiet ones? Well, we're usually the most dangerous.