Page 1 of Just One Look

Maverick

I swirl the glass in my hands, watching the ice slowly melt into the syrupy gold liquid.

“You okay, hon?”

I tilt my head up and am met with the friendly face and warm smile of a middle-aged woman. Her gray-streaked blonde hair is tied back with a scrunchie, and a rustic green apron with the name of this place, Bunny’s, sits neatly over her light-blue chambray shirt.

I reach for my wallet and slide a twenty across the counter.

“Yeah, fine. Sorry.”

Not sure how long I’ve been nursing a drink at the end of the bar, but I sense I may have overstayed my welcome. It’s June. Tourists have already started descending, even though harvest season doesn’t start for another month. She’s probably trying to free up some real estate.

“It’s okay.”

She slides the twenty back, assessing me with a gentle kindness in her eyes.

“I’m Bunny Hatfield. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m—”

“Maverick Benson, I know, honey.”

I drop my gaze, my fingers fiddling with the rim of the glass. “Right.”

Of course she knows.

In a small town like Silverstone, my oldest brother, Wagner, returning to take over the family winery and reverse its failing fortunes is sure to be big news.

The grumpy bastard doesn’t need my help, but he didn’t shoot down my offer to crash in our grandparents’ cottage at the vineyard while I finally, at the age of twenty-six, figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.

It also gives me a chance to spend more time with my favorite person in the world, my four-year-old nephew, Sammy.

I had to get out of the city.

Too much hurt.

Too much betrayal.

And a toxic relationship that blew up my entire life, causing me to spiral until I hit rock bottom.

Silverstone is exactly what I need right now.

When I look up, Bunny has moved on, serving another customer.

Good.

Normally, I’m fine with small talk, but I’m not in the mood today.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. That’ll be Ollie with an update.

Ollie: Wellington Sr. signed the contract. Congrats, man. The place is officially yours. You are now legally and financially responsible for a mountain of debt, a barn with broken plumbing, and a herd of half-wild horses.

Me: Let’s focus on the positive, shall we?

Ollie: You forget I’m a lawyer? I’d be out of a career if I did *positive.*

Me: You forget you’re also my best friend?

Ollie: True. Let me try that again. I’m *positive* you are now legally and financially responsible for a mountain of debt, a barn with no plumbing, and a herd of half-wild horses.

Me: You and I need to have a little chat about the definition of positive next time we catch up.

Ollie: I’m happy for you, man. Seriously. If buying a horse rescue center is what you want to do, I’m in your corner. Where are you now?

Me: I’m at a bar.

My cell blares the grinding intro to “Pony” at top volume, causing a few patrons to side-eye me curiously.

I quickly swipe to decline the call, cursing under my breath for letting Sammy play on my phone this morning.

I lift my cell and take a photo of the sign behind the bar.

Me: Sorry. Can’t talk.

Me: No cell phones at the bar.

Ollie: I don’t know what I’m more worried about. You being at a bar, or the fact you’ve somehow time travelled back to the early 00s.

Me: Silverstone ain’t the big city, my friend.

Ollie: Are you okay? Can we talk? I’m freaking out.

Don’t blame him.

Not every alcoholic has a singular, defining, rock-bottom moment. But I did. And Ollie was by my side when shit went down.

Me: I’m not drinking.

Ollie: So what are you doing there?

Good fucking question.

I guess I’m challenging myself. Seeing if after six months of sobriety, I’m strong enough to not succumb to having a drink. I stare down at the whiskey, and there’s zero temptation, absolutely no desire to take a sip.

There’s something worse instead. A feeling that has haunted me my whole damn life.

Numbness.

Me: Testing out the theory that one way of overcoming trauma is by tackling it head-on.

I snap a photo of my untouched drink and send it to him.

Me: Been nursing this for close to an hour. Not even tempted.

Bouncy dots appear, then disappear at least three times.

Ollie: Are you sure you’re okay?

Me: I’m sure.

Ollie: Pinkie swear?

Me: You’re a lawyer. You’d be out of a career if people did ‘pinkie swears.’

Ollie: Just shut up and reassure me please.

Me: I’M OKAY. DON’T STRESS.

Ollie: I’ll take it…for now. I have to go, I have a meeting. Call me later?

Me: Of course.

Ollie: Love you, man. Stay safe.

Me: Love you, too.

I flag Bunny down.

“What can I get you, hon?”

“A sparkling water, please.”

“Coming right up.”

When she returns with the water, I slip another bill across the counter, a fifty this time, and insist.

“Please. I want to.”

She smiles, and there’s a soft look in her eyes when she says.

“We share tips ’round here, so thank you.”

I take a sip.

“No problem.”

She taps the bar with her fingers, as if weighing up whether to engage in any more small talk.

A few beats pass.

“Well, let me know if you need anything else,”

she says before sauntering away. I smile, relieved she read me right.

I let the news from Ollie sink in. I’m closing one chapter of my life and starting a new one, even if I have no idea how it’ll work out. I wonder what Mom would think of it all. If she were still here, would she even notice?

To say my parents neglected their four kids would be putting it kindly. I get that Mom was consumed by her career, and Dad was busy being Dad, but for all the money and privilege we enjoyed, they never gave us the simple stuff. Like their time. Their support. Their interest. And most important of all, their love.

Grandpa Rick, on the other hand, gave us all of those things. Nothing beat coming to Silverstone to spend the summer at his winery. Even when Wagner, Adair, and Fenner got too old and “too cool”

to come and it was just me and him, it always felt like home.

My fondest memories are of him taking me horseback riding when I was little. He noticed that I was nervous, so we always rode side by side. He’d keep one hand on the reins, the other resting easily on his thigh like we had all the time in the world. I felt so safe and so loved, soaking up from him what my parents weren’t able to give me.

There was a spot we always stopped at, a small hill that overlooked the town. We’d sit there while the horses rested, nibbling on whatever grass or brush was around. Grandpa Rick would chew on a toothpick, and we talked. He asked me questions, like what music I was listening to, who I was hanging out with at school, if I wanted to follow in Mom’s footsteps when I grew up. And he listened to what I had to say. He made me feel like the most important kid in the world.

He didn’t have his own horses, but he knew the owners of Silverstone Sanctuary, and they let us ride on horses that had been fully rehabbed. Don’t know what’s happened these past ten or so years, but the sanctuary has been on a steady decline, bought and sold multiple times by investors who were most likely land banking and had no interest in taking care of the creatures themselves.

I got the idea to buy the place a few weeks after coming back here. It seemed like a win-win, a way to keep myself occupied and find some purpose, as cliché as that sounds. The rescue center wasn’t even for sale, but I came in with a low offer. The Wellingtons countered. I gave my final, and today, they signed off on it.

I should be happy…

So why aren’t I?

I push the room-temperature whiskey away and spin on my stool, my eyes catching on a flash of jet-black hair. It belongs to a guy on the other side of the bar, moving lightning fast, like he’s searching for someone. I follow as he scurries in and out of view, swiftly making his way through the crowd until he reaches his target.

I blink, then scoff under my breath when I see who it is.

Ridge Duporth.

I quirk a brow.

The Benson-Duporth rivalry goes back generations and continues to this day. They’re ruthless, slimy, manipulative, and not to be trusted. Our winery used to be the largest and most successful in the county until the Duporths eclipsed us. Grandpa Rick outright hated them with a passion his whole life. And when my sister, Adair, won the congressional district race, the veteran lawmaker she unseated was a Duporth.

I do my best to steer clear of the lot of them. Especially Ridge, the newly appointed CEO of Duporth Winery Estate and my brother’s biggest competitor.

I take in the black-haired fireball, dressed in a faded pearl-snap shirt and olive-green cargo pants. Something tells me shit is about to go down.

He interrupts whatever conversation Ridge and his posse were in the middle of and starts going off, arms flailing wildly. Ridge rises in one fluid motion, and even though he’s taller and broader than the dark-haired guy, the shorter guy isn’t backing down, poking Ridge in the chest.

No one from Ridge’s group gets up to defend him, which, for a brief second, makes me sad. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by people who don’t have your best interests at heart, who peck away at you like vultures, taking whatever they want with no regard for your feelings.

But that momentary sadness is quickly replaced by shock, my jaw falling open when the shorter guy takes a swing at Ridge. He connects with the side of his face, and finally, Ridge’s entourage does something. A scuffle ensues until two off-duty police officers break it up. Ridge speaks to one of them, pointing his finger accusingly, and the shorter guy gets escorted out.

My family may have a long history with the Duporths, but I have absolutely no business launching off the stool so fast it almost topples over and charging to the entrance, where one of the cops has just booted the black-haired guy out of Bunny’s.

I burst through the front doors and look up and down the street, quickly finding the guy stumbling down the sidewalk. He’s drunk and probably pissed off at Ridge for any number of reasons. We’re not the only ones who hate them. The Duporths have more than their fair share of enemies in town.

“Hey,”

I call out, walking briskly to catch up to the guy.

Without turning, he raises a hand over his shoulder and flips me off.

He barrels ahead, so I jog up to him and, when I’m a few feet away, try again.

“Hey, wait up.”

I’m close enough to appreciate every sleek black strand of tousled hair that reaches just past the collar of his shirt. The air around him smells like sun-warmed leather and the faint scent of horse.

His arms are swinging wildly, so I reach for his wrist. The second I make contact, he spins around. Feral green eyes land on me, and every ounce of breath leaves my lungs. Up close, he’s nothing short of breathtaking. Midnight-black hair sweeps across his brow, framing sky-high cheekbones, a galaxy of freckles dances across his cheeks, and even though his glossy lips are curled upward in a furious snarl, it doesn’t lessen their natural plumpness one bit.

His eyes narrow, the skin around them going taut. He flips me off again and then points to the gesture he’s making with his other hand.

“This means fuck off. Just in case it wasn’t clear.”

“I’m not one of Duporth’s entourage,”

I say, in case that’s who he thinks I am.

“I’m Mav?—”

“I know who you are.”

The bite in his voice shocks me more than the fact that this guy—this very cute, very angry guy—knows who I am.

“Have we met?”

He scoffs.

“No, we haven’t. But I’ve heard all about the almighty Bensons.”

He eyes me up and down, and his lips twist as if what he’s seeing doesn’t please him, laying it on a little too thick. I’m not saying I’m God’s gift or anything, but I’m tall, in good shape, and these designer black Saint Laurent jeans make my ass look good.

Before I can say anything or figure out how to angle myself to give the guy a better glimpse of said fine ass, he spins on his heel and storms off. When he reaches a beat-up Ford F-50 and is about to hop in, I call out.

“You can’t drive.”

He hangs his head like he’s just realized he’s stepped in a fresh pile of gooey horse shit, turns to me, and demands.

“And why the fuck not?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

He scrunches his face. “What?”

“I saw you stumbling down the sidewalk. You were at a bar. Just putting two and two together here, dude.”

“Well, dude.”

He spits the word out condescendingly and takes a few steps toward me.

“I’m not drunk.”

“Really?”

He inches forward, lifting his chin. “Yeah.”

It’s entirely possible he’s telling the truth. I mean, I was in the bar, too, and I wasn’t drinking. But the more we talk, the closer he gets to me. And I’m curious to see just how close I can get him to come.

“And what if I don’t believe you?”

“Are you always this infuriating?”

I prop my hands on my hips and flash a grin. “Yes.”

He throws his head back on a long groan, and my eyes laser in on the long column of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing away like I might actually be the most infuriating person he’s ever met.

His boots hit the ground hard as he charges toward me, stopping barely a few inches from my chest.

“You want me to prove I haven’t been drinking?”

“Yeah,”

I rasp, my throat suddenly dry.

“Fine.”

He cups his hands on each side of my face, tugs me down toward him—holy shit, is he going to kiss me?—and huffs out a slow, long, deep breath. It’s warm against my skin, faintly laced with coffee and something a little sweet, like cinnamon.

And definitely no trace of alcohol.

Still framing my face, he stares straight into my eyes.

“There. You happy now?”

Happy?

I’m a lot of things right now—bewildered, slightly dumbfounded, turned on as all hell—but happy ain’t one of them. I feel like I got ripped off.

Ignoring the disappointment curdling in my chest, I say.

“Fine, I believe you. You weren’t drinking.”

Maybe I say it with a bit too much authority, like someone who knows a thing or two about masking alcohol breath. Or maybe the guy is simply pissed off at me, a stranger, forcing him to take an impromptu sobriety test. Whatever it is, he’s staring at me so hard with those piercing emerald eyes it makes me want to do something crazy, like grab his face and get the kiss he teased but never delivered.

I take a step back and shove my hands into my pockets. I’m feeling unsteady.

Rattled.

A few beats pass, and then, saying nothing, the guy shakes his head and returns to his truck. He opens the door and lifts a leg to get into it, which only accentuates the round globe of his solid ass cheeks.

“Wait,”

I say, running my hand through my hair.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

A smirk dances on his lips as he holds me in his sights. Then, right before getting into the pickup, he announces.

“Jackson Hunter.”

He slams the door shut, and the engine revs to life.

“It was nice meeting you, Jackson,”

I yell from the sidewalk.

He hooks his elbow over the open window, and the truck moves away slowly. He raises his hand, and for a second, it looks like he’s about to wave.

But then…he flips me off instead.

And what do I do?

I stand there, watching him drive away, grinning like the motherfucking lunatic that I am.