“Swing and a miss?” He didn’t look like he cared.
What was he doing here? Professional interest stirred, and she mentally slapped it back down. Nope. Nada. Never. She’d burned her therapist shingle.
“I’m not wrong, Shane. You are running from something.”
She stifled her jolt. A man like this would feed on it. So, he knew her name. There could be innocent reasons for that, but this man was far from innocent. She stuck out one black cowboy boot with golden sunflowers on them.
“You are speaking metaphorically since I’m not wearing my running shoes,” she stated.
He didn’t answer or change expression, as if his silence could coax a reaction.
“Order a drink or get out. The Wolf Den’s more your vibe.”
She strode back to her bar. She was the boss. Her boots clicked on the polished hardwood floors that Graff owner Cormac Sheenan’s crew had stripped and smoothed and refinished to a gorgeous shine a handful of years ago when he’d purchased the dilapidated hotel and refurbished it. The Graff was on travel destination top-ten lists, and Shane was proud that the bar also topped many top-ten lists for innovative cocktails and interactive cocktail-making classes. Since she’d started bartending several years ago, bar business had quadrupled.
The man would not throw her off her game. She didn’t want him to think he’d gotten to her—so again, she put an extra cowgirl swish to her hips. Not to flirt. Liar. Because if she were going to flirt with a man, he would be the one she chose. He had complicated and secretive and hard-edged engraved into his bones. And she wanted everything he had—just for tonight.
She expected him to follow her. Push the spirit animal theme.
He didn’t. Instead he leaned against a column and watched her without looking like he was watching her. And the energy he exuded was crazy quiet. How did a man like that fade into the background? He had to be six four minimum. And the way the black leather motorcycle pants hugged his body and framed his package shouted sinful and should be outlawed in all fifty states. His shoulders were massive slabs of granite that she wanted to grip while she rode him and forgot about everything for a while.
She really needed to stop lusting. Poor Lachlan continued to make drinks while she was practically drooling.
Riley began to sing a Bonnie Raitt song, and Shane drew in a deep breath to reset.
“Hey how’s my bridal party?” Walker Wilder, the special events coordinator, entered the bar, business suit still looking neatly pressed. Her hair was up in a smooth chignon, and her second pregnancy had yet to show on her trim, but curvy figure. As always, Walker held her tablet in her hand, looking like she was about to delegate a list of tasks.
“They’re good,” Shane said. “Happy with their drinks and penis garnishes and their appetizers are next up.”
“I’m trying to ignore the penises,” Walker said. “Tell me they aren’t drunk.”
“I’m monitoring.”
“I know,” Walker said. “I’m just wanting this weekend to be perfect. It’s the first wedding we’re hosting at the Wilder ranch, and Langston and I have crammed in a lot of activities this week—I don’t want a hungover bridal party. Laird is doing a whiskey tasting and cigar bar tonight with the men in some man cave he designed under his tasting room. We have an early morning hike and goat yoga at Talon and Colt’s—I kid you not—so I made him promise to behave,” Walker said about her cousin.
“Nice pun.” Shane bleated softly. “It’s all going to go swimmingly,” she promised, seeing the alarm flare on Walker’s classically beautiful features.
“It will.” Walker smiled. “I have a great family and a great team. But I’m still me—a type A control freak. Fully owning it. We have hired a professional photographer to film the bridal events, and Langston and I went all out planning the events so that we have plenty of ammo for the Graff and Wilder websites, brochures and online adds and also for the chamber of commerce. With the economy and post-pandemic world we have to think outside the box to keep Marietta on the map and compete for tourist dollars. Not just ranching anymore.” Walker practically sang the last sentence.
“I’ll be sure to make T-shirts.”
Walker typed something on her tablet and then checked in with the bridal party, who cajoled her to also join their game. Walker skillfully dodged and waved good night to Shane.
Shane wondered what she would have planned for her own bridal party. She hadn’t been allowed to get that far, but she didn’t think a party game or goat yoga would have made the cut. She was so lost in the past for a moment that when she looked up and saw the man seated directly in front of her, she nearly dropped the shaker with the ingredients for two dirty martinis.
“Ready to order that drink.” He sounded as enthused as if he were showing up for a colonoscopy.
“What can I get you?” She used her driest, most professional voice, the one she reserved for customers she suspected were contemplating behavior that wouldn’t fly in her bar.
“Surprise me.”
“That’s a wide-open door.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, making her stomach plunge. The charcoal of his eyes lightened to quicksilver for a moment, and she was so shocked that she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
“Don’t act so surprised. I’m sure men always leave the door kicked wide open for you,” he said.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” she warned, not sure how to take his last comment, but wanting him to know that she could handle him no matter what.
“First lie of the night,” he noted.
“You think there’ll be more?”
“Probably.”
Shane tried to shut down her rush of excitement.
“I’m prepared. Just looking at you, Shane, promises a heap of trouble.”
“You’re confident you’re prepared?”
“Trouble I can always handle.”
“Sure about that?” She loosed the challenge in her voice.
“Always.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Your move, cowgirl. Make that drink.”
Chapter Two
“We playing mental chess?” She watched him, apparently assessing.
She was smart. Thinking the entire time, and he’d watched her assess the mood of the room and the people in it with a savant-like quality. True bartenders were socially gifted. Shane was so much more.
“I don’t play games.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Good for you.”
His admiration grew. It had nothing to do with her beauty, which was jaw-dropping. Her platinum-colored hair looked natural and was pulled back in a messy braid. Her creamy skin tone gave credence to the hair color. She was tall, almost a little too slim. Her features were small-town farm-girl beautiful, but her eyes elevated her beyond beautiful. They were an impossible color, similar to an aquamarine stone he’d seen in a jeweler’s shop window in Iraq. She must be wearing colored contacts.
I have to live for a woman with eyes the color of the Adriatic…
The hated voice again mocking him for again veering off mission. He’d seen the Adriatic in many lights—smooth as glass, turquoise or a fathomless blue green that was so beautiful it seemed alien. But he’d never once been able to let his guard down and swim in the sea, let its beauty wash over him, soothe him. And he couldn’t do that now.