Alternating between ranch and ketchup, I continue eating my tots at a leisurely pace. The karaoke is off, and the house music is playing classic 90’s country and I can’t help but turn around on my stool to check the place out some more.
When I do, I’m hit square in the chest with thatwhat have I donefeeling again. Tables full of friends talk and laugh, and when I catch the eye of a table full of women who look to be my age, I can’t help but feel as though they aren’t happy to see a stranger—make that a female stranger—in their bar.
I can’t turn around quickly enough and am resigned to the fact that if I keep my back to everyone, I won’t be reminded just how out of my element I am. But I try to remind myself that this is the first night, and I’m here to write, not to make friends. At least I have Beau on my side already. I guess I’ve made a friend, after all.
Still, I think I’ll throw this next pint back quickly and get the hell out of here and head back to the comfort of Sycamore Lane where everything is throw pillows and all things cozy.
Out of nowhere, I’m covered in goose bumps when a feeling comes over me that I can’t explain. Something that says don’t ask for the check just yet.
“I’m going to marry you one day,” a deep voice says from the barstool next to me.
What the hell?
“Excuse me?” I say, staring at the baseball game on the TV above the bar. I couldn't care less about baseball, but with what his voice did to my body, I’m scared to death to face the person attached to it.
“I knew it the moment you walked in.”
Is this guy for real?
“Wow, does that pickup line really work?” I reply, still without looking at him.
I’m such a chicken.
“Nah. I don’t really need to use pickup lines in these parts.”
“Who are you?” I ask the TV.
“Miles Montgomery at your service. What can I get you?” His voice is like butter, and I’m melting on the spot with every word he speaks.
My brain is yelling at me to get a grip, but my lady parts are finding it hard to fight his charm and silky-smooth voice.
Oh, this is not good. I can feel it.
Wait.
Miles Montgomery.
His name is on my list as one to watch out for.
Shit.
Knowing I need to proceed with caution, I slowly twist my head in the direction of the deep baritone voice that came from what was once the empty stool to the right of me.
Sandy hair. Check.
Caramel eyes full of trouble. Check.
Bronzed skin that says my days are spent outside and I’m probably a farm boy. Check.
A smile that could disintegrate a fragile pair of lace panties without even trying. Check.
The obvious charm Katie warned me about. Check.
Dangerous to my heart. Without a doubt. Check. Check. Check.
When he tilts his head just so and hits me with a casually sexy smile, my mouth hangs open as if my jaw has fallen off its hinges, bewildered by the mere presence of the man.
The words I had planned to put together letting him know I wasn’t interested float away like the dust particles illuminated by the neon on the walls. Leaving me looking like an idiot.