Page 43 of Hideaway Heart

“I like it,” she said, strolling across the floor toward the bar. “It’s very...” She flexed one bicep. “Manly. Smells like wood and testosterone.”

I walked behind the bar, irritated to see that someone had left trash from their lunch on the counter. I gathered it up and stuffed it into a garbage bag that had been left on the floor.

“No one’s working today?” Kelly ran her hand across the smooth surface of the bar Austin had crafted for me out of reclaimed wood.

“No. It’s a holiday weekend.”

She examined the bar closer. “Wow. This isreallybeautiful.”

“My brother made it.”

She glanced up at me in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. He makes incredible furniture—mostly dining tables—out of reclaimed wood. Barn doors, railroad ties, whiskey barrels—you name it.”

Her eyes lit up. “Iwant a dining table made from reclaimed wood. Will he make one for me?”

“You can ask him. He’s finally stepping back from running Two Buckleys with my dad to go into business for himself.”

“That’s awesome.” She bellied up against the bar and gave me a devilish grin. “So make me a drink, barkeep. Let’s watch some sports ball. Get mad and shout things at TVs. Root, root, root for the home team.”

Laughing, I shook my head. “I don’t even have any liquor yet, and the televisions aren’t hooked up.”

“Bummer.” She sighed and turned around, ambling across the floor, her hand trailing along the back of a chair. “So did you always want to own a bar?”

“Not particularly.” I was trying to keep my thoughts professional, or at least platonic, but my eyes kept drifting. That red hair. The curvy hips. Those fucking boots.

“Did you think you’d be in the Navy forever?” She turned one of the chairs around and straddled it, elbows on the table, chin resting on one fist.

My throat was so dry. If I’d had any whiskey behind the bar, I’d have poured myself a shot. “I never really thought too far ahead.”

“You were more of a take-each-day-as-it-comes kind of guy?”

“That’s kind of how they trained us. To focus on the thing we’re doing at the time and not stress about what was left to do or what was coming next. It would have been too easy to get overwhelmed and quit.”

“Did you ever think about quitting?”

“During training? Sure. Everyone did. But I was a stubborn motherfucker.”

One side of her mouth curved up. “Oh, I know all about that.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about those open thighs beneath the table, the way she’d straddled me last night. My mouth on her tits. Fuck.

“What about you?” I asked, trying to redirect.

“Me?” She touched her collarbone, right where I’d laid my forehead last night. “I was always focused on music. When I was little, my daddy used to play in local bars, and Mama would bring Kevin and me along to watch. I was mesmerized by the sound, the lights, the applause. He was having so much fun on that stage, and everyone loved him. Sometimes he’d bring me up there with him and we’d sing together. It just felt like magic to sing and make people smile or whistle or jump up and dance.”

“Does it still?”

She looked surprised by the question. “Still what?”

“Feel like magic.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe it does. I’m just asking.”

“Sure, it does. I mean, maybe not every single night, but that’s a lot to ask. Every performer gets tired. But I try to remember that even though I’ve sung a certain song hundreds of times, someone out there might be hearing it for the first time, or maybe hear it differently that night because of what’s going on in their life.” She shook her head. “I never want to let anyone down.”