Chapter 6-Micah
Another hour crawls by.
Friday nights at The Watering Hole always seem to stretch forever.
The dinner rush fades into the drinking crowd.
The drinking crowd fades into the regulars.
Then, eventually, even they start filtering out into the warm Jersey night.
Alex pays his tab.
He tips enough to make Sloane blush.
I frown.
Not because he's flirting.
The kid isn't.
He's just generous.
Still...
I don't particularly enjoy watching another man make her smile.
Jealous?
Maybe.
I'm not proud of it.
Doesn't make it any less true.
I stay where I am.
One beer.
Finished thirty minutes ago.
No reason to still be sitting here.
Except one.
Her.
I'm making sure she gets through another night safely.
That's what I tell myself.
The truth?
I like watching her.
Not in a creepy way.
Well...
Maybe a little.
Enough that I'm painfully aware I've crossed the line between keeping an eye on someone and finding excuses to be wherever they are.
She wipes down tables.
Stacks glasses.
Checks on the cook.
Runs food.
Mixes drinks.
Clears empty baskets.
She's everywhere at once.
Too damn busy.
Too damn tired.
Too damn good at pretending she's fine.
Patrick disappeared into the office almost twenty minutes ago.
Probably counting money.
Or yelling into his phone.
Or both.
Which leaves her doing the work of three people.
My jaw tightens.
She deserves better than this.
The crowd keeps thinning.
I glance towards the door.
Good.
Almost quitting time.
Then two assholes who should've left ten minutes ago decide to linger.
Drunk.
Loud.
The kind of men who mistake kindness for invitation.
I straighten in my chair—they don’t see me.
Morons.
One of them reaches across the bar.
Hooks a finger beneath the tie of her apron.
Twirls it around his finger like he owns the damn thing.
My vision narrows.
Soon to be dead morons if he doesn’t stop touching her.
She laughs politely.
It’s her fake one.
The one she gives customers who don’t understand boundaries.
But I know enough about her now to recognize it’s not real.
I can see it in the tension in her shoulders.
The stiffness around her smile.
She's uncomfortable.
I don't fucking like it.
She eases backward.
Trying to create space.
Trying to be nice.
They don't take the hint.
“Come on, sweetheart,” one slurs.
“You know you've been flirting with us all night.”
“Yeah,” his buddy adds with a drunken grin. “You even bought us a beer.”
“I own the bar,” Sloane replies patiently. “So I buy lots of customers beers.”
She gives them an apologetic smile.
“I'm sorry if you got the wrong impression.”
Wrong answer.
They laugh.
One leans farther over the bar.
“Come on.”
He pats his thigh.
“Sit on my lap.”
“I bet I can change your mind.”
Every muscle in my body locks.
“Actually...”
She swallows.
“No.”
Then, with surprising confidence, she lifts her chin.
“Because, you see...” She puts her hands on her gorgeous hips. “I have a boyfriend.”
Boyfriend?
My ears perk up.
Boyfriend?
My stomach drops somewhere around my boots.
Since when?
How the hell did I miss that?
I've been watching.
No.
Keeping an eye on—fuck.
Hell.
Whatever the fuck I've been doing, I know I've never seen another man.
Have I been wrong this whole time?
Have I built an entire fantasy around a woman who's already with someone else?
The thought hits harder than I expect.
Then her eyes find mine.
Big.
Brown.
Hopeful.
Pleading.
She points.
Straight at me.
“Right there. That’s my boyfriend.”
My brain completely short-circuits.
Me?
She means me?
Fuck. Yes.
My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
This is the kind of thing I've imagined more times than I'd ever admit.
Only in those daydreams she actually wanted me.
This is different. I’m not dumb enough I don’t know the difference.
She's asking for help. I can see it written all over her face.
Please.
Don't make me explain.
Don't leave me hanging.
Don't let them know I lied.
She rounds the end of the bar and walks straight toward me.
Every step feels surreal.
She stops so close I can smell oranges and vanilla beneath the scents of barbecue and beer. Then, she places her hands on my chest.
“I'm almost done, Babe,” she says loud enough for the two drunks to hear.
Then, softer, only for me, she adds, “Please play along.”
Her hands are warm against my chest.
Soft.
Small.
Real.
I look down at them for half a second.
Then back into her eyes.
She's nervous.
Embarrassed.
Trusting me anyway.
Something shifts inside my chest.
Not just protectiveness.
Something bigger.
Something deeper.
“I’ll be here. Just take your time, Princess.”
The nickname slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes widen just a little.
Then she smiles.
Not the fake bartender smile.
A real one.
Tiny.
Private.
Meant only for me.
I turn my attention to the two idiots still standing at the bar.
“She's taken.”
My voice comes out calm.
Quiet.
Which somehow makes it sound even more dangerous.
“So why don't you two get the fuck out of here before I throw you out?”
The bigger one looks me up and down. Probably deciding whether he's drunk enough to try me.
He isn't.
“Damn, man. You workout?”
“What the fuck are you asking me?”
Is this guy serious?
He throws up both hands.
“Never mind. Sorry.”
His buddy nods so fast I'm surprised he doesn't fall over.
“We're leaving.”
“No hard feelings.”
“There will be if you're still here in five seconds.”
They don't argue.
They damn near sprint for the door.
Good.
The silence that follows feels strangely intimate.
Sloane lets out a breath she'd clearly been holding.
“I'm...”
She rubs the back of her neck.
“I'm really sorry about that.”
I shake my head.
“Don't worry about it.”
“You probably think I'm crazy.”
“No.”
“I just panicked.”
“I know.”
“I didn't know what else to do.”
“It’s fine. I'm glad I was here to help out.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
She blinks.
“So am I.”
Our eyes meet.
Neither of us says anything for several seconds.
I should probably say something.
Anything.
Ask if she's okay.
Ask if she needs me to walk her to her van.
Ask her out.
Hell, ask her favorite color.
Instead, I just stand there.
Looking at her.
She smiles shyly.
“Thanks again, um, Micah.”
Then she slips away behind the bar to finish closing.
I hate that she leaves.
Hate how empty the room feels the second she's more than a few feet away.
I almost call her back.
Almost.
But I don't.
When the place is nearly empty, I slide four twenties beneath my bottle.
More than enough to cover one beer and dinner.
Probably breakfast too.
I stand.
No goodbye.
No wave.
Goodbye means conversation.
And we already established I suck at conversation.
It’s just that every time I think about talking to Sloane O'Brien, I'm painfully aware there are only two possible outcomes.
I'll say something stupid.
Or worse...
Something true.
Neither option feels particularly safe.
The cool night air hits me as I step outside.
Crickets chirp somewhere beyond Main Street.
The little town has gone quiet.
I walk to my SUV and grab the parts box from the passenger seat.
Cabin filter.
Engine air filter.
Oil rag.
Flashlight.
Simple job.
Five minutes, maybe ten.
Her old conversion van sits beneath the security light behind the building.
The thing has character.
Couple hundred thousand miles if I had to guess.
New tires.
Fresh brake pads.
Engine sounds healthy.
She takes care of it.
Good.
I pop the hood.
Exactly what I expected.
The cabin filter looks like it hasn't been changed since dinosaurs roamed the earth.
“No wonder you can't breathe,” I mutter.
Five minutes later the new one's installed.
Engine filter next.
Easy.
I check the oil while I'm here.
Still clean.
Half a quart low.
I grab the bottle from my toolbox and top it off.
Might as well.
Coolant's good.
Belts look fine.
Battery terminals are clean.
Satisfied, I lower the hood gently.
Done.
I wipe my hands on the shop rag.
“That ought to help.”
The back door slams open.
Shit.
I turn.
Sloane steps through the back door carrying two bulging garbage bags, bumping it shut behind her with her hip before heading toward the dumpster.
She freezes halfway there.
Her eyes find me.
Then the open toolbox sitting beside her van.
Then the hood that's still propped open.
Then me again.
Confusion.
Suspicion.
Disbelief.
Every emotion flickers across her face in the span of about two heartbeats.
“Micah?”
Well...
Fuck.
This is awkward.
“What...” She blinks several times, looking between me and the open hood of her van. “Um... what are you doing by my van?”
I look down at the greasy shop rag still clutched in my hand.
Guess there's no point pretending I was birdwatching.
“You needed a new cabin filter, Princess.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Princess.
The nickname slips out again soft and low.
Automatic.
Like I've been calling her that inside my own head for months.
Hell.
Maybe I have.
Because she looks like one with her red hair and peaches and cream skin.
Yeah.
She fucking does.
Just like a fairy princess from a story older than time.
Silence answers me.
Complete silence.
Her lips part just a little.
Those warm brown eyes somehow get even bigger.
I mentally bang my forehead against the hood of her van.
Not literally.
Because I'd rather she think I'm socially awkward than completely unhinged.
Smooth, Fiero.
Real fucking smooth.
Normal men buy flowers.
Normal men ask a woman out for coffee.
You perform preventative maintenance on her vehicle without permission because you noticed she coughed too much driving home.
Perfectly normal behavior.
Absolutely not bordering on obsessive.
Not at all.
Except...
It is.
And I know it.
I know watching her every night isn't normal.
Knowing what kind of oil her van takes isn't normal.
Ordering replacement filters because hers were filthy isn't normal.
None of it is.
But once I notice something that needs fixing, I just can't leave it broken.
Not when it belongs to her.
Because somewhere along the line taking care of Sloane stopped feeling like a choice.
It became instinct.
She still hasn't said anything.
She's just staring at me.
So I do the only useful thing left to do.
I walk toward her.
She doesn't move.
I stop close enough to reach for the garbage bags.
“Here.”
Our fingers brush as I take them from her.
Warm.
Soft.
Jesus.
Just that tiny accidental touch is enough to tighten something low in my chest. And something hardening in my jeans.
Fuck.
“They're heavy,” she says quietly.
“I noticed.”
I turn before she can argue.
Two long strides.
The dumpster lid groans as I throw both bags inside.
Done.
Easy.
I wipe my hands on the rag one more time before turning back around.
And she's...
Closer.
Much closer.
I don't remember hearing her move.
She must've followed me.
She's standing right there.
Close enough that I can smell her.
Not perfume.
Just...
Sunshine.
Clean skin.
A hint of citrus soap mixed with fryer oil and smoke from working a twelve-hour shift.
It's the nicest thing I've smelled in weeks.
My eyes betray me.
They travel over her face before I can stop them.
The freckles dusted across her pert little nose.
The faint pink in her cheeks.
A loose strand of fiery red hair that's escaped her ponytail and curled against her jaw.
She's tired.
I can see it.
But she's still the prettiest damn thing I've ever looked at.
“You didn't have to do that,” she says softly.
“I know.”
Her brows pull together.
“Then why did you?”
Because I've thought about you every day since the first time you smiled at me.
Because I can't stop wondering if you're okay.
Things I have no business wondering about.
Like how you slept, if you’ve eaten, or if you’re taking your meds regularly.
Because every night I watch you work yourself to exhaustion while your asshole brother stands around acting important.
Because hearing you cough made me crazy enough to order car parts before I even thought about how nuts I’d look.
Because somewhere between the first beer and the hundredth glance across this bar...
You became important to me.
Too important.
Instead of saying all that I give her the only answer I trust myself with.
“Because someone should, Princess.”
The words settle between us.
I watch them hit her.
Really hit her.
Her expression softens.
Not with pity.
Something else.
Something warmer.
It’s like nobody has ever simply taken care of her before.
That realization guts me.
I don't think.
Thinking is dangerous around Sloane.
Thinking reminds me that I barely know this woman.
That I've spent weeks watching her instead of talking to her.
That any reasonable person might find me creepy as hell.
Instead, I act.
Slowly.
Giving her every opportunity to stop me.
I lift my hands.
She watches them rise.
She doesn't step back.
Doesn't flinch.
Doesn't tell me no.
My palms settle gently against her cheeks.
They're warm.
Softer than I imagined.
She lets out the tiniest breath.
I swear my own heart forgets how to beat.
God.
She's right here.
After weeks of watching her from across crowded rooms...
After pretending I only came for burgers and beer...
After lying to myself that changing her filters was just being helpful...
She's finally standing close enough to touch.
My thumbs brush her cheeks almost without permission.
Her eyes search mine.
Wide.
Questioning.
Trusting.
That last one scares the hell out of me.
My gaze drops to her mouth.
Full.
Soft.
I've wondered what those lips would feel like more times than I care to admit.
I shouldn't be doing this.
I know I shouldn't.
But every instinct inside me is pulling me toward her like gravity.
I bend toward her.
Unable to stop.
Unable to think.
Only knowing one thing for certain.
I've wanted this woman from the moment I first saw her.
And now...
She's finally within reach.