Prologue #2
Pivoting on the squeaky leather stool, I came face-to-face with Cute Guy.
Or face-to-chest. Because I had to tilt my head up to see his face, thanks to his giant genetics.
He was nearly a head taller than me while I was perched on the barstool.
His tanned face cut an attractive figure with his five o’clock shadow shaping his angular jawline.
And those eyes? A brilliant ocean blue a girl could get lost in under that slightly tousled sandy-brown hair.
Hmm… He reminded me of a rugged James Norton. Or maybe a James Dean.
“Butt out, man, this doesn’t concern you,” Denver snarled, puffing his chest out like he was in some weird territorial bird ritual.
Cute Guy stared him down, his expression flinty. His eyes had been kind when he looked at me, but now? Ice cold and lethal.
And I’d never felt safer.
Because Denver really was a spineless toad with a millipede on his upper lip, he backed down with his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Always gotta be the white knight, Grey.” He sneered. “Heard your last lady didn’t appreciate that much.”
By this point, I was pretty much gaping like a guppy.
Guys had nearly come to fisticuffs for me.
How? I wasn’t heroine material. I was sidekick, boring-book-girl material.
But my heart was doing somersaults in my chest. Because a stranger—a man—had stood up for me.
I wasn’t used to that. But also, who was this other woman Denver mentioned since the two men obviously had a history? And why did I instantly kinda hate her?
“Hey, you okay?”
I flinched when Cute Guy’s warm hand touched my shoulder. “Oh, sorry! Yes! And thank you for that. He gives me the creeps.”
“No woman should have to go through that.” Cute Guy—my brain really needed to pick a better nickname—held his hand out to me. “Good game. Been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of being bested on the subject of Tolkien.”
His words weren’t condescending or a backhanded compliment. They were honest-to-goodness sincere.
I slipped my hand into his—strong, sure, and slightly calloused—shaking it, while light tingles trickled up my arm. Much more pleasant than Denver’s handshake. It was actually firm instead of wimpy like an overcooked noodle.
Again, that feeling of familiarity tugged at me as I basked in his blue gaze. A familiar stranger, yet I couldn’t place him. True, I’d only lived in Serenity Springs for about six months, but I’d been a frequent visitor for half a decade. Too bad remembering faces had never been my strong suit.
Once my propriety caught up with my sensibility, I snatched my hand back, realizing I’d been staring for way too long.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen from my bun behind my ear.
“You were a worthy adversary.” I twisted my thumb ring again, searching for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete moron. “Are you new around here?”
Seriously? How much more unoriginal could I get? If I had nothing of interest to say, I might as well have remarked on the weather like Mrs. Dashwood always said.
But the guy chuckled, a low, rusty sound like he was out of practice. He should definitely do it more often, though. “Not quite, ma’am. Born and raised here. Just been away for a while.”
The ma’am threw me. Did I look that old? True, I had a prominent grey streak on the right side of my head—thank you, stress—and Liz said my eyes were more tired than twenty-three years should be, but still. Or was he flirting?
I scanned the man again, taking in his bearing.
He was poised with lethal grace and determination.
Not too close to be uncomfy but close enough for me to catch a hint of a subtle, spicy cologne.
My money was on military or cowboy. But I hadn’t noticed a swagger marking him as a ranch hand.
Was that just a fictional stereotype I read about in romance books?
“I’m Paisley,” I said at last. Then mentally face-palmed because Denver had literally announced my name. Cute Guy already knew who I was. This was why I didn’t go out. I could not be trusted around society.
Cute Guy’s lips twitched with a reluctant smile, and I had the urge to see him grin unabashed. Why am I noticing? “I’m Greyson Satterfield.”
Bells rang in my head, and I shot a look over my shoulder to my friends. Liz was chatting up the waitress, because she made friends simply by going to the grocery store, while Stephanie and Juliet shared a plate of nachos in our booth, neither apparently saying much. Very on-brand for them.
I was on my own.
Trying to channel Stephanie’s cool professional composure, I crossed my arms over my chest and raised an eyebrow. “Any relation to Juliet Satterfield?”
Greyson dipped his head, slipping one hand into his pocket and leaning against the live-edge wood counter in a motion far too smooth for my skittering pulse. “Older brother.”
I snorted. “One of them, you mean.” There were five Satterfield brothers, and they were all stupidly attractive. Not that I was interested—all but two were married, and I’d bet he was one of the single ones.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Cal’s twin.”
“Ah,” I said, the pieces clicking into place. “You’re the Marine.”
“That obvious?”
Tilting my head, I dragged my eyes over him in another slow perusal.
He straightened as I did so. Interesting.
“Maybe a little.” Was I flirting? And whatever for?
Because a handsome Marine with a nice smile and a strong handshake swept in like a hero to defend my honor and nearly bested me in the knowledge of all things Tolkien?
Which, to be fair, both were pretty hot.
“You’re a little far from base, Marine.” I politely downed the last sip of my Shirley Temple. “Word is you’re never home.”
Greyson casually slid onto the stool next to me, his knee lightly brushing mine.
I tried not to flinch. You’re safe. He defended you. You’re okay.
Oblivious to my mental freak-out, he continued, “I’m home for a few days on leave. For my mom’s birthday.”
Which meant I’d be seeing more of him since I’d also be attending Delilah Satterfield’s party.
A strange warmth bloomed in my stomach at the thought, but I quietly dismissed it.
He was a Marine. In the military. He didn’t live in Serenity Springs, and I liked the life I was creating here.
It was stable. Exactly what I wanted. What I needed.
He nodded to my empty glass. “Can I buy you another?”
“May.” The word shot out, and I slapped my hand to my mouth, like I could catch it back. How had the girls thought I was suitable company for a night on the town? Correcting a near stranger’s grammar was the epitome of rudeness in the face of such kindness.
Embarrassment burned my cheeks and neck.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I shouldn’t have .
. .” I ducked my head. Stop rambling! “A Shirley Temple, please. Uh, thank you.” Wow, I couldn’t talk tonight.
Not that I was a stellar conversationalist most nights, but especially not where a cute guy was concerned.
Greyson didn’t seem offended, just waved at Marcel behind the counter. “One Shirley Temple and a Dr Pepper, please.”
Marcel, the bartender, eyed me carefully from under his bushy grey eyebrows, and only once I gave him a small nod did he slide our drinks across the counter.
He wasn’t a chatty guy. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard him say a word, but he slung a mean soda, looked out for his female patrons, and didn’t mind when a girl sat at his counter crying into her third Shirley Temple of the night.
Not that I had experience with that or anything.
“So does this always work for you?” I asked, sipping my citrusy concoction. “Play the hero, almost beat a girl at trivia, flash that million-dollar Marine smile, and buy her a drink?” Although I hadn’t even seen his full smile yet, something told me it was a sight to behold.
“Only with the girls who beat me at trivia,” Greyson corrected, eyes twinkling.
I arched an eyebrow. “I’m a librarian, so nerdiness comes with the territory. What’s your excuse?”
Greyson’s expression faded from amused into soft remembrance. Like he saw a world beyond the crowded diner. “Tolkien was my grandpa’s favourite author. Every summer when I was teen, a bunch of my brothers and I headed south to work on their farm outside Twin Falls. Grandpa and I traded trivia.”
There was something about the way he said that—a longing mixed with sadness.
“He sounds lovely.” Like a storybook grandpa really.
I was picturing the Alm-Uncle from Heidi or maybe shy, sweet Matthew Cuthbert from Anne of Green Gables.
Granted, I had no personal experience with grandparents since I’d never known mine.
But books gave a girl room to dream, and I’d dreamed plenty about the grandparents I never met.
“He was.”
Ah, that was it. Connection to a lost loved one. Something I understood. I propped my elbow on the counter, chin in hand, and swiveled to face him better. “I’m sorry. I know that’s hard.”
Greyson shrugged, his Adam’s apple bobbling as he took a swig of his soda. “Thanks. It was a long time ago, but events like tonight make me feel closer to him.”
“Would he be disappointed you were beaten?”
Greyson’s flirty grin popped right back out in full force this time, and wow, good thing I was sitting down. That smile was military-grade dangerous. Did they hand those out after boot camp? They should come with a warning label. “Not when it’s by a pretty woman.”
My cheeks heated, and the urge to giggle overwhelmed me. Giggle. I, Paisley Grace McBride Nichols, never giggled. Not even with Jared, now that I thought about it. So why did this Marine, my bestie’s older brother to boot, have my heart beating in a way it hadn’t in years? Had it ever?
And he thought I was pretty? I was under no illusion of my own beauty.
I was unremarkably average with green eyes that needed glasses, a dusting of freckles, and a willowy build that forever made me look fragile.
My most prominent feature was my waist-length chestnut hair with its stripe of premature grey and flyaway bangs.
Besides, I wasn’t ready to dip back into the dating game.
I’d only come out tonight because of Juliet’s bossy attitude dragging me from bed—not to find a man.
She had used her scary lawyer voice to order me around, and one simply did not say no to that tone.
Watch out, bad guys, Juliet Satterfield was a bulldozer.
That slimebag doesn’t deserve an ounce of your guilt for what he did to you.
Juliet’s words rang in my brain. She was right. I knew that. And I wasn’t mourning the man—my ex-husband—who’d wooed me with false promises, then broke me after he took off his charming mask and left me grappling to rebuild my life without him.
But I didn’t trust myself to trust another man. I’d made a terrible decision before, and a broken heart had morphed my mother into the woman she became. I’d vowed to never become her. But I’d messed up the first time. Never again.
Still, that smile . . .
Greyson was a Marine, his shoulders amazingly broad and sturdy. I let my eyes linger there, on the way his muscles filled out the black T-shirt underneath the flannel hugging his tall frame, before dropping my gaze. It might be nice to have someone else do the saving for once.
I’d never had a partner. Not really. Maybe the world wouldn’t feel so heavy with another soul to shoulder the load.
I shot another glance at Juliet, but she still ignored me.
Surely there was some sort of girl code against dating your bestie’s brother.
I’d read enough books to know it was even considered a trope—usually with disastrous results for the bestie relationship.
But when I eyed Juliet again, I could have sworn she was smirking.
A broken heart, a best friend, and a protective Marine who loved Tolkien as much as I did—what was a girl to do?