Page 1 of Entirely Yours
Brooks and Dunn croon about broken dreams and neon moons over the speaker of The Dusty Barrel, serenading me like they do most nights. Surprisingly there are a few country music bars in the greater Boston area, though, The Dusty Barrel claims to be the oldest and where I felt the most at home after moving from middle-of-nowhere Texas several years ago. The floors are sticky, everyone is cast in a faint red tint from the beer-themed, neon lights, and there’s always at least one old man with a cowboy hat on, talking about “The good ol’ days.”
It has aCoyote Uglyvibe—without the misogyny.
Okay, maybe it hassomeof the misogyny. I’ve been known to hop up on the bar if I need some extra tips.
I’ve liked it here well enough, but tonight is my last night before I move again. It’s time for me to get back to small-town life—I want somewhere slower paced for Chloe, my four-year-old, to grow up. She’s only known Boston streets and apartment buildings full of strangers. It’s easy to be invisiblehere, but Chloe deserves to be visible. I want her to experience what it’s like to really feel known. A feeling that is always present when everyone knows your name, who your first kiss was, and what your order is at the local burger joint.
A feeling I thought I hated until suddenly it was missing.
I’m also more than ready to get my hands on the keys to my new dance studio. A dream I’ve had since I was barely old enough to reach the barre is finally coming to fruition, thanks to money my Grandmother left when she passed away and years of scraping pennies together… hence the dancing on bar tops. I will admit, I didn’t think it would come together quite this soon, but here we are.
I wipe down the counter and busy myself pouring another beer when my eyes snag onhimfor what feels like the hundredth time this evening. It’s always pretty quiet around here after the holidays, January is notoriously slow, which is why he immediately caught my eye when he walked in. Though, I think I would have noticed him even if it was packed tonight.
“TBD” is what I’ve been calling him in my head. One: because it isto be determinedwhat I want to do with him. And two: because he’stall, brooding, and darkwith two sleeves of tattoos winding around what I can see of his tanned forearms and full, luscious locks of mahogany hair, pulled back into an effortless messy bun that would’ve taken me three hours and several rounds of tears to execute. A wistful sigh leaves my parted lips.
He’s here alone and has been for the past hour. I know this because I kept waiting for someone to join him, and yet no one ever did. No ring that I can see either, not that everyone wears one. I can’t decide if I should go say hi or keep awkwardly staring at him from across the bar.
While attempting to make up my mind, my inner monologue goes something like this:Thea. Get your ass over there and talk to the deliciously hot man that you will never see again. What’s the worst that could happen?
Then I say to myself:Well, my dearest Thea, there are many terrible things that could happen. One, he could be a serial killer. Two, he might say no. And three, he says yes and you will continue to be a disappointment to yourself and those around you.
I know, it gets dark real fast.Then I chastise myself for being too hard on myself and that cycle repeats over and over again, presumably until I’m dead.
I realize I’m in one of these thought spirals when TBD lifts his hand—the smallest of waves, accompanied by a furrowed brow. Fuck.Fuck!Have I been watching him this entire time?!
Staring dumbly, I think through my two choices: walk over to him or duck behind the bar and pretend like I’m not here. As much as I want to choose option two, I buck up and head toward him.
“Hi. So sorry about that, I think I blacked out for a second… Low blood sugar probably…” I ramble. I’m actually a fairly put together person—I have a child for fuck’s sake—but this man is making my brain do pirouettes. And those pirouettes seem to be executed by Pre-K dance students.
He chuckles and it’s somehow… melodic? I’m unsure how that is even possible. Then his grin hits me full force, and he has fucking dimples. They look just like Chloe’s. I’ve always fallen head first for dimples, and it dawns on me that I’m quickly losing a battle against my already thinning restraint.
“Well, that’s better than why I thought you were staring at me,” he says.
“Why did you think I was staring at you?” I’m curious now, another negative trait. Always too curiousandtoo willing to sleep with men who have dimples. Okay, so it was just the one other one, but still.
“I had a run-in with a feral chipmunk on the way here, and I was worried the little guy had messed up my hair,” he deadpans.
I feel my eyes grow three times their size because, little known fact, I am terrified of chipmunks. We don’t have them inTexas, at least not the part of Texas I’m from, and I vividly remember the first time I saw one after moving to Boston. I thought maybe I’d channel my inner Disney princess and try to befriend what had to be the cutest little creature I’d ever seen. That desire lasted until the fucker took a chunk out of my finger, and I had to get a tetanus shot.
Needles are another thing I hate.
TBD must sense my terror because he immediately holds up both hands to console me. “No, I’m joking. That did not actually happen. Sorry, are you a big fan of chipmunks? No creatures were harmed on my walk here.”
I take a deep, cleansing breath like the therapist I follow on social media taught me. “I am the opposite of a fan. A hater? I’m a hater of chipmunks,” I reply.
“Obviously…” He grins. I decide I like his teeth. Maybe I’d let him take a chunk out of my—nope! Don’t go there, Thea.
We stare at each other for one beat… two. He really is justsopretty. I find my gaze wandering to his forearms. They’re covered in black lines that I now realize are flowers. All different kinds winding up and down both forearms. Music notes twine in between the blooms and come to a stop at his wrists. He catches me staring—again—and holds out his arms for me to inspect.
“I like them,” I murmur. Talking about the tattoos and his forearms, if I’m being honest. God, when did I get so horny?
I spot a rose wrapping around his left wrist and reach out to graze the ink before I can think better of it.
“I’ve always had a thing for roses,” he says, eyes trained on where my fingers meet his skin. I feel them burning into me. “Not sure why,” he continues. “My mom tried to plant rose bushes a few times throughout my childhood, but most of them didn’t really stick.”
“Roses are fickle things,” I muse, my finger still following the lines around his wrist.
“You sound like you know from experience.” He looks at mewith his dark, soulful eyes, sending a little shiver down my spine and causing an inconvenient heat to grow in my stomach.
