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But I drive anyway.

Because walking alone at night isn’t the smartest move, especially in this part of town, and I may not have a lot, but I do have a designated parking spot, and by God, I use it.

Besides, I’ve seen way too many true crime documentaries to fall into that trap.

No way am I becoming the next tragic case study on some grim show with grainy reenactments and ominous music.

You know the one.

“She was a small-town barmaid, just trying to make a living… until the night she vanished without a trace.”

And suddenly I’m the cautionary tale with wide-eyed interviews from co-workers, “She always smiled, you know? We never thought anything was wrong until she didn’t show up for her shift. And then they found her in a duffel bag behind the school playground.”

Nope.

Not today, Satan.

There will be no stalkers wearing my skin, no backwoods creeps feeding my remains to their emotional support livestock.

Not on my watch.

So I do what any modern, crime-aware woman would: I grab my keys, triple-check that my pepper spray keychain is locked and loaded, make sure my cell phone’s fully charged, and climb into my trusty little Toyota like I’m prepping for battle.

The drive to Bob’s Bar is short. Just a few blocks. But long enough to give me time to do what I absolutely shouldn’t.

Think about him.

Kian O’Malley.

Tall, broody, and built like a damn cowboy calendar model who accidentally stumbled into New Jersey on his way to a steamy romance cover shoot.

Seriously. The man is built.

He’s so big and tall with rodeo slim hips and thick rugby player thighs I just want to nibble.

Nope.

Not thinking about that at all.

Tonight is about work.

Friendly customers.

Good tips.

Staying alive.

Not about lingering stares or rough hands or the way my name might sound spilling from a hot boy’s lips or whispered into the dark.

Gulp.

So, if a certain smexy Romeo walks through that door again?

I’ll just ignore him.

Yep.

No problem.