CHAPTER TWO
Asher
He draws my attention the minute he walks into Hank’s.
Draws?
Hell, more like he commands it.
Through the dim haze of the bar, I can make out a dark head of hair, broad shoulders, and expensive clothes. He has an unapologetic presence that says he doesn’t give a fuck who’s staring at him because he likes the attention.
And the locals in here are staring. Sizing him up. Wondering what the hell he’s doing in a bar in Junction City when fancier ones—by small-town standards—are down the highway in Cedar Falls.
I study him from my spot behind the bar, expecting him to turn and walk out, and secretly wanting him to. There’s something about him—an air of authority, a confidence, a familiarity I can’t place—that completely owns my attention.
I’ve had enough trouble in my life with men like him.
He’s just a customer, Ash. You’re feeding his ego. An ego that most likely revels in the boost you’re giving it. So, stop staring.
For once, I heed my own warning—it’s not often it happens—and turn my back on him to dry glasses fresh out of the dishwasher.
But I know the minute he sits down at the bar. I can feel the weight of his stare and smell the faint yet expensive scent of his cologne.
And yes, I know it’s expensive. After filling in for my best friend, Nita, from time to time, I can tell the difference between a drugstore cologne and a high-end one.
Junction City is on the outskirts of Cedar Falls, the gateway to the wealthy person’s recreational areas.
Ski slopes on one side of town, rivers and lakes on the other, and a whole host of scenic “look at me” places for pictures to be taken and posted on social media in between.
They stop into Hank’s Bar for a quick drink and to experience that small-town atmosphere while bitching about its lack of Cristal or some other fancy shit.
So yes, the man at my back might be handsome and is more than likely charming as hell, but I’ve been there, done that. The flirting, the cell number left on a napkin, the promise of a good time while he’s in town.
Sometimes I take up the offer because variety is few and far between when you’ve lived in one place your whole life.
Other times I just smile and endure the flirting, knowing the whirlwind weekend of great (sometimes) sex and pretending I’m one of them isn’t always worth the emptiness that comes when they leave.
Because despite the promises, they never call.
Ever.
“I think the town you’re looking for is about twenty miles that way,” I say, motioning in the direction of Cedar Falls without turning to face him.
“And how do you know what I’m looking for?” There’s amusement in the tenor of his voice. There’s also something else that has me pausing.
“Well, no one stops in Junction City unless you’re a local or utterly desperate,” I say as I dry another glass.
“Maybe I’m not like everybody else then.”
“That remains to be seen,” I murmur and wipe my hands on a towel.
“So, apparently, does my ability to get a drink in this place.”
My laughter is sharp as I turn to face the smart-ass, impressed with his quick wit. But when I finally see him, my next words die on my lips.
I stand behind the bar, eyes blinking, head reeling, and look at the man who was once the boy who stole my heart.
And then broke it into a million pieces.
My moonlight boy who said he’d love me forever.
But the person in front of me isn’t a teenage boy anymore.
No. He’s undeniably all man, who has only gotten more attractive with age.
His dark hair has a wave to it that’s been styled with product.
His eyes are astute and aloof. And the smile he offers damn near knocks me off my feet before freezing me in place as a flash of recognition shoots through his amber eyes.
Ledger Sharpe.
A name I’ve never forgotten . . . even if I wish I could have.
“Asher?” His voice sounds as shocked as I feel before his eyes quickly dart to his right and left—as if he’s expecting someone else to be there—before coming back to mine. “What . . . what in the hell are you doing here?”
“Ledger.” His name is a breathless two syllables as I try to gain my bearings. “I—what—I mean . . .” Why?
Why are you here?
Why does seeing you bring back a million emotions—elation, anger, surprise, shame, longing—despite the passage of time?
Why are you even more handsome now?
Why did you leave without a word?
Why did I give you so much power to break my heart?
“Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it falls back perfectly into place as he stares at me, with his head shaking ever so slightly and his jaw lax. “Never in a million years did I think that you’d still . . .”
“What? That I’d still be here?” I ask. The chuckle that follows is self-deprecating.
And just like that, I’m transported back to that night.
To those life-altering events and the scars they left behind.
To the shattering of my heart. My guard is up.
“Yeah, you know us simple folk. We never leave.” My smile is strained despite my racing heart.
Even after all these years, the humiliation exists, the embarrassment over what I felt is still real, as I try to process the fact that Ledger Sharpe is in front of me.
It’s what I prayed for night after night—for him to come back. But that was fifteen years ago.
Life has changed.
I’ve changed.
“You know what? I’m going to go.” He abruptly stands up from the seat he just sat in, the scrape of the stool drawing even more glances our way. He’s angry? What the hell? And yet for some odd reason, panic I shouldn’t feel sparks to life.
“Ledger. Wait. Don’t go . . .” There’s misplaced desperation in my voice that I hate the sound of.
I hate feeling it even more.
His brow furrows as if he’s confused by my request—as am I—but with his eyes locked on mine, he slowly lowers himself back onto the stool. The low hum of chatter throughout the bar begins anew as customers go back to their own business, bored already with whatever is going on between us.
But I’m not.
I’m rapt with attention, struggling with seeing him again after all this time, while attempting to process the tumult of emotions storming through me. For a few unspoken moments, we study each other, and I can only assume he’s remembering everything about our past too.
His expression begins to soften despite the tension remaining in his shoulders.
“It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?” he finally says, but there’s an edge to his tone, an uneasiness about him.
It’s almost as if he’s uncertain how to act when I know he entered this bar moments ago, an extremely confident man.
“It sure has,” I murmur.
Images flash through my mind. First kisses. First loves. First everything in that final summer that was filled with laughter and living, laden with promises and predictions for our future. A summer where I felt like I was someone’s everything for the first time in my life.
There’s unsettled silence between us. The kind that years apart and lives lived causes—when you know the person that was, but not the person in front of you now.
Those amber eyes of his always won me over. The same eyes staring at me now, asking questions I don’t think I know the answer to even if he were able to put words to them.
I clear my throat. “What can I get you to drink?” I ask as if he were some random customer. I need to stop my thoughts from tumbling too far into a past we cannot change. A past that hurt for way too long.
“What craft beers do you have on draft?” he asks.
“We only have domestic. I’m sure that’s not up to your standards—”
“Meaning?” His brows furrow.
“Meaning guys like you, ones with pedigree, prefer the expensive shit,” I say with a bite to my tone. That one word will be forever burned into my memory.
“Pedigree?”
I grab a glass and dry it again, needing something—anything—to do with my trembling hands. The anger that riots through me burns its way into hurt. “Yep. Nothing average or run-of-the-mill will do for you.”
His chuckle is low, but his eyes are curious as he leans back, head angled to the side, and crosses his arms over his chest. I can assume he’s a smart man. Does he think time would fully erase the hurt after what happened? After what was said and the insecurities and humiliation it caused?
He may not have been the one to say it, but he went along with it.
Does that matter, though? It’s been, what? Fifteen years? What’s done is done, Asher. Let it go.
Our gazes hold for a beat until he gives the subtlest of nods that seems to indicate he’s going to play along with whatever attitude I’m giving him.
“You imply that I think I’m too good for a Coors Light and in turn too good for this place in general.” It’s a statement. Not a question. And the look he gives me says he wants whatever fight is brewing here. “That wasn’t the case before, was it? And it sure as hell isn’t the case now.”
Liar. It’s my first thought.
Leave the past in the past. That’s my second.
I draw in a deep breath, determined to heed the second one, but struggling with the task already. Scars may fade but they can still run deep. “I’m not implying anything. I’ve learned the hard way about men like you.”
“Men like me?” He lifts a lone eyebrow, confusion etched in the lines of his handsome face. “I don’t remember you being this judgmental before.”
“Huh. And here I thought you didn’t remember me at all.”
He startles. “Didn’t remember you?” He coughs the words out in disbelief, his eyes narrowing. “After everything we shared? After the hell I went through? How can you—”
“The hell you went through?” I all but screech. “What about—”
A ruckus breaks out in the rear of the bar, with shouts and the clatter of glass bottles falling. I move to calm the situation, but Hank is there already, breaking up the fight between two regulars we all know by name because this isn’t the first time it’s gotten heated between them.