Page 23 of Moonlit Temptation

EVANGELINE

It takesa few blinks before my eyes adjust to the muted lighting inside The Wild Boar. The scent of beer and whiskey linger in the air like it's built into the very foundation.

It's four o'clock on a Monday, but apparently, this is the place to be.

Over half of the tables and booths are full. It's busy here, but not exceptionally noisy. Probably because the ceilings are plastered with that noise-canceling material that absorbs sound.

Edison bulbs in wrought-iron sconces spotlight framed vintage music and concert posters around the room. The floor is made of real wood, scuffed and scratched by decades of footsteps and heavy boots. It's probably a hundred years old, from a time when houses and buildings were built to last generations. They don't make houses with this kind of wood flooring anymore.

The bar itself is a centerpiece, carved almost like a wave along most of the wall to my left. The top is polished wood, oiled enough that the TV's reflection shines on it.

Rustic two-top and four-top square tables fill the space, with the occasional bar-height table thrown in. Black leather booths line the open wall space, some big enough to fit ten people comfortably but cozy enough for an intimate drink.

Across from the bar is a small stage. Two steps off the floor with large speakers on either end and other equipment scattered across it. It's a darkened corner now, but I could see how it would come alive when local musicians played.

I imagine the ambience shifting, doing a one-eighty on those nights it's lit up. From charming and laid-back to electric and charged with energy. Right now, though, it's pretty chill with its charming decor and extensive wall of liquor behind the counter.

My gaze sweeps around the bar. A few couples sway to a melodic slow song while others stand near the stage, talking and laughing with drinks in hand.

I bet it's electrifying when someone's onstage and they play a crowd favorite. I can almost feel the way the energy of the crowd is gearing up, my own heart fluttering in anticipation. I think I'd like to see that.

I slide onto one of the swivel bucket-seat stools at the bar, the black faux leather creaking as I shift my weight around.

“You lost, gal?”

I look at the bartender, an older guy who looks like he's seen some shit in his life. Not surprising considering this is the only bar in town. He kind of reminds me of one of those aging action movie stars from the 80s. He's tall with a barrel chest pushing the limits of his black long sleeved tee. Shaved head, a beard that's more gray than black, and tattoos on the back of his hands.

But his eyes are kind. His expression somehow dubious and soft as he watches me take him in.

I adjust my crossbody purse so it rests on the seat next to my hip, out of the way. “This is the only bar in Rosewood. How'd that happen?”

He tosses a white rag over his shoulder and plants his palms on the edge of the polished bar top. His expression gives nothing away and he deadpans, “Luck.”

My brows arch toward my hair and I nod a few times. “Okay. Well, can I get a mojito please?”

They're my go-to drink when I'm out, which isn't all that often. But there's something about the spearmint and the lime that tastes refreshing. And after the last couple of days I've had, I could use a little refreshing. A small respite on this hot summer night.

The bartender tilts his head to the side, the skin between his brows puckering a little. “You new in town or something?”

“Or something,” I answer with a nod, my gaze drifting around the bar.

“Huh.” He pushes off the bar top and walks down to the other end, presumably to make a mojito before someone at the other end of the bar flags him down.

That's fine, I don't mind waiting. It gives me time to people-watch a bit. I recognize some faces from my time walking around downtown the past couple of days, but most look unfamiliar.

A few groups of people are clustered together at their tables, leaned toward one another in deep conversations, their glasses nearly empty. At the far end of the bar by the restrooms is a couple with their heads bent low, foreheads nearly touching.

I scan the room, my gaze lingering on a group of guys in leather vests at a booth in the corner. My pulse jumps at the thought of seeing Nova again. And my heart races as I search each face in the booth.

But he's not there.

My heart deflates a little, and I can't help but feel disappointed. It's a little silly really, considering I met him once.

“On the house. For the newest resident of Rosewood. Or something.” A highball glass clanks against the bar top in front of me, a few drops splashing over the sides. Sprigs of mint and several lime wedges float inside.

My back presses against the chair as I reach for the mojito. “Thank you.”

He nods, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary. “You waitin' on someone?”

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