Chapter 5
FIVE
TESSA
The Rusty Elk Tavern smells like spilled beer and the faintest hint of grilled onions. It’s not completely unpleasant. But it makes it seem more like lived-in. Like an old favorite pair of jeans.
Hank doesn’t waste time with small talk.
“You one of those bartenders that’s all about craft cocktails?”
“Not really. But I can make a gin gimlet.”
“Meh.” He snorts. “This crowd drinks Bud and whiskey. You got a problem making either of those?”
“None whatsoever.”
He tosses a black T-shirt across the counter. It has a faded elk logo on the chest.
“You’re hired. Your trial shift starts now.”
I blink. “Wait, seriously?”
Hank leans in, eyes gleaming. “I told you I needed help for the season. If you can make it four hours without quitting or crying, the job’s yours.”
I can’t help but gape in disbelief. To be honest, I don’t know what possessed me to take Hank up on his offer. Well, I have an inkling. When a certain animal rescuer told me Whiskey and I were welcome to stay as long as we wanted—and I found out the cost to fix my damn car—taking on temporary work seemed like a good idea.
Now… well, I guess we’ll have to wait and see.
By hour two, my feet hurt. My ponytail is frizzing. Plus, someone named Earl tipped me in loose change and a coupon for an oil change. Still, I can’t help the weird sense that keeps flowing through me.
I can do this.
I can start over.
Even if I still don’t know where the hell “over” will end up being.
Whiskey’s safe at Gage’s place, according to the check-in text from earlier that read “Cat is alive. Mildly offended. Won’t get out of my chair.”
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
Until it isn’t.
The guy comes in just before dusk. He’s in his mid-forties, with a smug vibe that screams he’s several times divorced and every ex of his is “crazy.” He leans against the bar like it owes him something and gives me a slow once-over.
“Well, hey there, sweetheart. You new?”
Customer-service smile activated. “Just started.”
“Lucky us.” His eyes trail down, then up again, making my skin crawl. “You got a name, or should I make one up?”
“I think ‘ma’am’ works just fine.”
He chuckles. “You’re feisty. I like that.”
I give a cursory glance around the bar. There are only a few people here. Hank’s in the back. No one else is watching. The guy leans in farther, breath sour with something cheap.
“Tell you what, why don’t you pour me a double whiskey, and I’ll leave you a tip worth smiling about?”
“No thanks,” I say, flat.
“I wasn’t asking.”
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the low hum of the bar—low, sharp, and cold.
“She said no thanks, Ben.”
I turn.
Gage stands in the doorway, shadowed in the neon light. His hair’s tousled, his flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, and I swear he’s never looked more like he could throw a few punches.
Ben straightens. “I didn’t realize the new girl already had a boyfriend.”
“I’m not her boyfriend,” Gage says, stepping closer, “but I am the guy who’ll kick your ass if you don’t back the hell off.”
The air in the room stills. Even the music feels like it lowers its volume.
Ben backs up, huffing out a bitter laugh. “Not worth the trouble anyway.”
He throws some crumpled bills on the counter for the drink he ordered earlier and shuffles out.
Gage doesn’t move until the door swings shut behind him. Then his shoulders relax a little, and he looks at me.
“You okay?”
I nod, heart still racing. “Yeah. Thanks. You really take your role as a rescuer seriously.”
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t say more. He almost never does.
“I was just checking on something,” he says instead. “I didn’t mean to barge in.”
“You didn’t. Well, you kind of did. But it was the good kind of barging.”
That earns a faint, flickering smile. A rare sight. It does something ridiculous to my insides.
I pour him a soda and slide it across the bar. “On the house.”
“No beer?”
“You strike me as the kind of guy who only drinks when he’s not about to drive.”
“Good instincts.”
The silence between us isn’t awkward—it’s loaded. Thick with everything that didn’t happen last night. Everything that almost did.
I still feel the ghost of his hand brushing mine when we changed that bandage. The heat of his body near mine. The way he looked at me. The way I swear he almost kissed me.
I should say something. Break the tension.
Instead, I wipe down the bar in slow, useless circles.
Gage clears his throat. “I should get back?—”
“Don’t,” I say.
He stops.
I don’t even know why I say it. Except I do.
I don’t want him to go.
But when I can’t give him a good reason why he should stay, he offers to wait around until it’s time to drive me home.
Which he does. Nursing a water the whole time. When Hank finally gives me the okay to leave, Gage opens the door for me.
We don’t say much on the drive. Not as we wind up the path to the rescue. And not when he follows me inside the cabin.
He flips on the light switch. He looks at me, and for a second—just a second—it feels like the ground shifts.
“You don’t have to play the hero all the time,” I say.
“I know,” he says. But he doesn’t move.
The light catches his cheek. His eyes. That scar. All of him so damn steady.
“You’re not what I expected,” I murmur.
His brow furrows. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “More gruffness. Less heart.”
He steps toward me. Slowly. Watching me the whole time.
We’re close now. Too close.
He’s right there. His fingers graze mine again—intentionally this time. My breath catches. His thumb brushes my knuckles, and I swear to God, the whole cabin fades away.
“I shouldn’t,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
But neither of us moves.
His hand lifts—hesitates—then gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles graze my cheek, and the touch is so soft I have to close my eyes.
When I open them, his face is inches from mine.
My gaze drops to his lips. He rubs them together. Just once.
It’s not a kiss yet. But it’s so close my entire body tenses in anticipation.
And then?—
We kiss.
Not planned. Not slow. Just there .
Like a match hitting tinder.
His hand cradles my jaw, rough fingers gentle. My palms find his chest, solid and warm and too real. The kiss is hungry, then hesitant. Like we’re both waiting for the other to pull away.
But neither of us does.
Not right away.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing like we just sprinted through the woods.
His forehead rests lightly against mine.
“That probably shouldn’t have happened,” he says, voice ragged.
“Probably not.”
But neither of us moves.
And it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a mistake.
Then—of course—Whiskey lets out a loud yowl startling both of us back into the moment.
I step away, cheeks flushed. He backs up slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“You should… feed your cat,” he says, voice rough.
“Yeah. I should.”
We don’t look at each other as I open the bag and toss a treat into the dish.
But I can still feel the imprint of his mouth on mine.
And somehow, I know this is just the beginning.