Page 31 of The County Line
His brown eyes turn towards me as he studies me seriously. “Does it make you look at me differently?”
My eyebrows scrunch as I take him in, surprised by that question. “No. Why would it? I know who you are inside. You were doing the right thing protecting that woman. Imagine if you hadn’t intervened…”
“Yeah...” he shrugs, his voice deepens as the emotion in his eyes disappears. “Well, shit happens.”
Shit like this doesn’t just happen. It’s allowed. People in power turn a blind eye, letting violence go unchecked, with no real consequences for the ones who deserve them. Colt wasn’t some reckless criminal—he was defending an innocent woman, stepping in before she faced something far worse.
The thought makes my stomach twist. It hits too close to home, stirring up things I’d rather keep buried. The only thing I’ve eaten today was a single mint from Lydia’s desk back at the precinct, and now, even that feels like it’s threatening to come back up.
“Well… if you’re not drinking tonight, I guess that means I’m drinking for both of us.” I grab my beer, because I don’t know what else to say—how to smooth over the weight of our conversation—so I do the next best thing and down a long gulp. Then, without hesitation, I signal the bartender and order a round of shots for the group.
Colt watches me, that unreadable expression still in place, as I knock one back. The burn settles in, warm and distracting, and before I can overthink it, I grab his hand and tug him toward the dartboard. “Come on—let’s play.”
An hour later, after a competitive round of darts with Colt and another shot Lydia insisted that I take, the familiar hum of alcohol spreads through my veins. It’s a comfortable kind of buzz, loosening my limbs and making me talk faster, filling Colt in on all the little details of my new home—the way Regan and I are decorating, the things I’m most excited about now that I’m back in town. I’m doing anything to keep the conversation going to distract him from where he is and distract me from how good he looks tonight and the heaviness in my heart for him.
I shift on my barstool, gesturing animatedly, when suddenly, the seat tilts beneath me. A startled laugh escapes me as I slip, but before I can even process it, Colt’s hands are on me, steady and strong, keeping me upright.
“Molly…” Colt growls in a low warning, his large hand steadying me on one of my hips.
A rush of heat blooms in my chest as his hand lingers, his hazel eyes locking onto mine like a magnet I can’t resist. Those eyes—rich with swirls of green and gold, like a damn kaleidoscope—pull me in, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. My thoughts spiral, teetering on the edge of saying something stupid. Something reckless that could nudge me out of the friend zone and straight into a casual hook-up with the man sitting in front of me.
I shove the thought aside, forcing my mind to latch onto something—anything—safer because I can’t acknowledge what’s really bubbling beneath the surface: the crush I’ve nursed for years, no longer innocent and harmless but now a full-blown ache for a man who’s so far out of my reach, it’s almost laughable. For a man who takes care of the people around him and is wounded at his core.
I’ve sworn off men like him—men who are too beautiful for their own good. After my ex, I learned my lesson: dangerous, gorgeous men with devastating smiles and bodies carved from stone are heartbreak waiting to happen.
Men like Colt? They’re a risk I can’t afford to take.
Not when I’ve barely pieced myself back together.
Not when I know how easily he could shatter me all over again.
Not when I need his friendship more than a casual hook up.
Chapter 14 - Molly
“Hey –” my words slur as I grip his bicep to try to steady myself.
His large, tattooed,verystrong bicep.
I squeeze as much as my fingers can wrap around and try not to focus on how the solid muscle doesn't give even a little under my grasp. I swear he’s flexing to make it that way but when I look at his face, he looks relaxed, well as relaxed as Colt can be these days. My pulse races, my body warms and despite this being one of my closest childhood friends, I can't help but feel like something's changing between us.
“Hey, I um, I thought you said that your little was named Malachi? It looked like you were paired up with a young girl today?” I’m grasping at anything now.
He watches me like I’m the only thing worth looking at. And it’s only now—hours after we first stepped into the bar, after the laughter, the rounds of drinks, the game of darts—that I realize something. He hasn’t spoken to anyone else tonight. Not really.
All the other volunteers we came with are scattered around the bar—some tucked into booths, others draped over barstools, locked in conversation or halfway through bad karaoke performances—but not him. He hasn’t mingled. Hasn’t flirted. Hasn’t even tried to make small talk with anyone else. His attention, from the moment we walked in, has been wrapped around me like a slow, deliberate tether.
He's sat beside me. Ordered my drinks. He leaned in when he talked, voice low and close enough to stir goosebumps along my neck. And then he challenged me to darts, just so he could stand behind me, his breath brushing the back of my ear, his palm steadying my arm like he was guiding more than just my throw when it was completely unnecessary.
And now, sitting here again, I feel it—the heat of his gaze, unapologetic and unblinking.
Women keep glancing our way. I’ve noticed it all night. Their eyes always seem to land on him, curious and lingering, lips twisting into intrigued little smiles. And who could blame them? He’s impossible not to look at. Tall and broad-shouldered with a quiet, coiled intensity that fills every corner of the room. That jaw, sharp and shadowed. Those hands, big and capable, wrapped casually around his water. And God, the way his back flexes every time he throws a dart, muscles shifting beneath his shirt like he was built to hold weight—mine, maybe.
I’ve been doing it too. Stealing glances, tracing the curve of his forearms when he rolls his sleeves up, watching the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s focused. Every part of him feels precise. Controlled. But his attention on me? That’s the one thing he doesn’t seem to be holding back.
“He is,” Colt finally responds, “But he’s out of town with his mom for the next two weeks. Lydia assigned me to Jenni temporarily.”
“Jenni… she’s adorable. Did you have a nice time with her today?” I ask, trying to stay focused.
