Chapter 4-Sloane
I’m so happy to see the folks from Jersey Iron Ranch I can almost ignore my brother’s mercenary chatter.
Almost but not quite.
“Alright, now we’re talking. We can finally make us some money tonight,” Patrick says.
Of course, he glanced up from the register toward the front door the second they came in.
Of course he did.
And yeah, it makes me cringe.
It’s like he’s got a sense for money and opportunity. But I’d like to think he might actually like the Jersey Iron Ranch crowd because they’re nice people.
But he most likely tolerates them because they spend money.
Good money.
Sawyer DeWitt comes in first, all broad shoulders and quiet confidence, holding the door open for his wife like he can't bear the thought of her lifting a finger.
Lil Bit smiles when she spots me, one hand unconsciously rubbing the sweetest little baby bump I've ever seen.
God.
She's adorable.
Sawyer looks at her like she hung the moon, and every time I see them together my heart squeezes a little.
Benji Gunner follows close behind, laughing at something Alex, the youngest of the crew, says.
Esme snorts and elbows her husband in the ribs, and he just grins at her like he won the damn lottery.
Which...
I guess he kind of did.
She's gorgeous.
Confident.
Funny.
I've been following her Plus Size Van Life vlog for years, long before she ever wandered into my bar looking for lunch after one of her Jersey road trips.
I still get a little starstruck when she waves at me.
The best part?
She doesn't act famous.
Neither does Bit, who has an awesome homespun sewing thing going on at the local craft fairs and online.
The two of them stop by during slower afternoons sometimes, chatting while I prep vegetables or fold napkins.
They ask about the menu, tell me about the ranch, laugh over whatever shenanigans Benji and Sawyer have gotten themselves into this week.
It's nice.
Really nice.
I haven't had girlfriends like that in, well ever, if I'm being honest.
Not since school.
And even then they never lasted.
After Dad passed away, we never stayed in one place long enough.
Patrick always had a reason we had to move.
A better opportunity.
A fresh start.
Another town.
Another apartment.
Another promise that this one would be different.
I never questioned it much.
Life happens.
People lose jobs.
Sometimes you just have bad luck.
Besides...
He sacrificed so much after Dad died.
Didn't he?
When I finally got approved for the loan to make this place happen? He was over the moon.
I think it was the first time my big brother’s ever been proud of me.
The thought leaves a funny ache in my chest that I shove aside before it can settle.
This place...
This town...
The Watering Hole...
It all feels different.
Like maybe—for the first time in a long time—I've finally found somewhere to stay.
Somewhere I can belong.
Somewhere I might actually make friends who stick around.
I don't realize I'm smiling until my attention slides past the happy couples.
Past Alex.
Past Sawyer.
Until it lands on him.
Micah Fiero.
He always comes in last.
Always.
Like he's making sure everyone else gets through the door before he does.
Quiet.
Bearded.
Broad enough to block out half the light spilling through the entrance from outside.
His faded gray T-shirt stretches across a chest that looks carved from old oak, the sleeves hugging tattooed forearms dusted with dark hair.
Scuffed boots. Dark jeans. No hat.
Never a hat.
He doesn't stride into a room.
He assesses it.
Those pale blue eyes sweep over every table, every customer, every exit in one smooth, practiced motion that somehow feels more military than cowboy.
Nothing escapes him.
I wait for it. Almost buzzing with angst.
Then...
His gaze finds me.
Not my smile.
Not my curves.
Me.
All of me.
It only lasts a heartbeat.
Maybe two.
Long enough to make my pulse skip.
Short enough that I wonder if I imagined it.
Then he's looking away again, expression unreadable, like the moment never happened.
Funny thing is it happens every time he comes in.
And every time, I tell myself I'm going to stop noticing.
But I can’t seem to help it.
Weird man.
He never flirts.
Never smiles much.
Never orders more than a burger and beer. Sometimes wings.
He usually nurses the same bottle for an hour while everyone else talks.
Sometimes he brings a laptop.
Sometimes he just sits.
Watching.
Thinking.
Listening.
I've tried talking to him before.
Simple things.
“Another beer?”
“How's the ranch?”
“You guys surviving this heat?”
His answers are always polite.
Short.
Almost careful.
Like every word costs him money.
I should probably stop wondering about him.
Instead, I wonder what color his eyes really are.
They're blue.
I know that.
But not ordinary blue.
Sometimes they look gray.
Sometimes silver.
Tonight, they're almost icy.
Cold enough to keep everyone at arm's length.
Except every now and then, when he thinks nobody's looking, I catch him looking at me.
Not at my chest.
Not my butt.
He just looks at me.
Like he's trying to solve a puzzle.
Like he's reading a language only he understands.
It's disconcerting.
And strangely flattering.
Mostly disconcerting.
Patrick slaps the bar.
“Sloane! Quit daydreaming and get these boys some menus.”
I blink.
Realizing I've been staring.
Oops.
I grab a stack of laminated menus and head out onto the floor.
Sawyer grins.
“Evening, Red.”
“Hi, Sawyer.”
“Kitchen open?”
“It always is.”
Benji smiles warmly.
“Smells amazing in here.”
“It better! We've been smoking meat since dawn.”
He laughs.
Then I reach Micah.
He's already pulling out a chair.
Already looking away.
Like he wasn't just watching me thirty seconds ago.
“Hi,” I say.
His eyes lift.
Meet mine.
Hold them.
“Hi.”
One word.
Low.
Rough.
Enough to make my stomach do the tiniest little flip.
Weird.
Very weird.
“Usual?” I ask.
He nods once.
“If you don't mind.”
“I don't.”
I write it down even though I don't need to.
One local lager.
Burger.
No onions.
Extra pickles.
Fries well done.
I memorized his order months ago.
Funny.
Maybe we're both watching a little more closely than we should.