I head into my room to get ready for my shift, which makes it sound like it’s some grand affair. It’s not.

Just a pair of jeans that are starting to lose the battle against time and thigh rub, and a black t-shirt that says Bob’s Bar in peeling white letters over my chest. Real glamorous stuff.

Still, it’s warm out today. Finally .

I decide to brush out my hair until it falls in soft, wavy ribbons, all shiny and clean.

I pull it up into a high ponytail, a little bounce at the crown. Something about it makes me feel fresh.

Presentable.

Kinda cute.

I swipe on a bit of face powder, add some mascara to make my blue eyes pop, and finish with a touch of pink gloss.

Sweet.

Simple.

Functional.

I don’t do heavy makeup. Not because I’m some au naturel goddess or anything, but because I run hot.

And by hot, I don’t mean sexy.

I mean sweaty.

You ever see blush on top of a peaches-and-cream complexion that’s currently losing a battle with humidity and hustle?

Yeah.

Not cute.

I learned the hard way that my peaches turn into overripe apples real fast, and if I try to layer blush over that, I end up looking like a cross between Punch, Judy, and a Victorian fever victim.

No thanks.

So, I keep it minimal.

Powder to matte the shine, something to keep my lips from looking ghostly, and boom.

I am done.

Not much I can do about these jeans, though.

They’ve seen better days, and they are definitely tighter in the backside than I remember.

Yes, I am talking about my ass.

Whatever.

I made peace with the fact that I’m a bigger girl when I was still in high school.

And now, with thirty creeping up behind me like a sneaky little gremlin, I can finally say I’m good with it.

More than good, actually.

I feel comfortable.

Like I fit into my body instead of trying to shrink it.

Hell, I even think I look okay. Maybe even cute on a good day.

And just for a split second, a stupid, fleeting, completely unhelpful second , I wonder if he would think so too.

No.

No. Nope.

DO NOT GO THERE.

But of course, I go there.

Because no matter how many times I tell myself not to think about Kian O’Malley, that’s exactly where my traitorous mind goes.

Last night.

God, what was that?

Yeah, the drunk cowboy was being a Class A jackass, but I could’ve handled it. I’ve dealt with worse.

Still.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t melt just a little when Kian stepped in like some brawny, dark-eyed avenger and smashed that moron’s face into the bar top.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t about me. Maybe he’s just the old-fashioned type who doesn’t like men mouthing off.

But given his reputation as a total player, I somehow doubt chivalry was what got his blood boiling.

Not that it matters.

He didn’t ask me out again.

Didn’t flirt.

Didn’t linger.

He just paid his tab— overpaid it, actually, which was weird —and then he left.

Quiet.

Controlled.

Like the whole thing hadn’t even rattled him.

Which it totally had.

At least, I think it did.

Maybe?

Doesn’t matter.

I grab my purse and keys before I start spiraling again, lean over to press a kiss to Gramps’ cheek.

He pats my hand, squeezes it gently. “Drive safe, darling.”

“Always,” I say with a smile, heading out the door.

I slide into the front seat of Cleo, my ancient but loyal little Toyota, and start her up with a sputter and a growl that sounds vaguely like someone waking from a nap they didn’t want to take.

The bar’s not far.

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.

Totally fine.

Completely unaffected.

Like a cucumber in a walk-in fridge.

Unbothered.

Unavailable.

Emotionally bulletproof.

Right?

Er, right.