Page 32 of A Stop in Time
But this man… He possesses an air of safety and protection that makes me want to curl myself around him like a cat. It’s the strangest reaction I’ve ever had to a complete stranger.
Not only that, but I sense he’s multifaceted. His face tells a story all its own. Paired with those shadows that linger beneath his eyes, the sharp cut of his cheekbones and jawline appears harsh and unforgiving, as if to illustrate a past life that sliced him to shreds before he pieced himself together.
As I peer closer at his face, it’s the traces of scars that attest to my previous thought. A faint, mostly faded white line bisects his bottom lip while a few thicker, shorter ones sit above the high edge of one cheek. On the other side, a ragged-looking one descends from his jawline and into his neck.
It’s that one in particular that has my heart skipping a beat, because it could’ve easily ended his life had it nicked his carotid artery.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to get back on track. “Plus, the ninja thing does nothing for me—doesn’t turn me on in the least.
“And you’re obviously someone who works out enough to have veins in your forearms.” I casually point to his exposed arms, bared by his rolled and cuffed shirtsleeves.
“As for the rest of you”—I offer his flat midsection a cursory glance—“I’m not really into skinny men.”
He holds my stare, and I will myself not to be the first to look away. Is everything I said absolute bullshit? Basically. But he doesn’t need to know that.
One dark brow arches. “Not into men with hard abs, then, huh?”
“Nope.” I say this rather quickly, trying to erase the image of what it might look like beneath his shirt. Stop it. Just stop it.
That gleam of amusement grows brighter as he leans in toward me, his voice low and gravelly. “Are you into men who have big—”
“No,” I rush to interrupt firmly.
One edge of his mouth quirks upward. “Huh. And here I thought you’d appreciate a man with a big brain.”
I roll my eyes and face the bar. “That’s enough outta you, Danny,” I mutter before lifting my glass.
“It’s Daniel.” This time, his tone doesn’t possess the same steely undertone as before, and I hide my smirk as I toss back the rest of my whiskey.
A beat of silence passes. “How ’bout we talk somewhere there’s less of a chance of bein’ overheard?”
Before I can offer a response, the bar door swings open and multiple people call out, “Hank!” Or “Hey, Junior!” When their greetings change to booing, I swivel my barstool to see the reason.
It makes sense when I see the person Hank Jr.’s leading by the hand. Serena is a cashier from the grocery store a few blocks down the road, but by the starry-eyed way she watches Hank Jr., she doesn’t appear to take the booing or comments to heart.
This place is an unofficial haven for men wanting to get away from their wives, girlfriends, “ball and chain”—however they refer to them. Lucky for me, nobody ever batted an eye the first time I stepped foot in this bar years ago after I took over the salvage yard.
It’s probably because they don’t see me as desirable because of my scars, and I don’t fit the bill as far as the usual Southern belle goes. I’m more at home having my hands dirty with engine oil or grease than dusted with flour and vegetable oil while I slave over a hot stove for a man.
“Stay away from that damn jukebox!” Old, crotchety Mr. Palmetto warns Hank Jr. “Don’t wanna hear more of your new age shit.”
I bite back a laugh because Hank Jr. is obsessed with '80s music—nothing close to “new age shit”—and gets so much shit for it each time he’s here. He normally plays a dozen or so songs when he brings a “lady friend” with him.
Bringing a woman here, in a bar that’s pretty anti-woman, is a no-no…for anyone other than Hank Jr.
If it were anyone else, they’d pull the plug on the jukebox and refuse to serve him alcohol, but Hank Jr. gets away with it since his father’s the current mayor.
Hank Jr. exchanges a few fist bumps as he ventures toward the jukebox. Even though dozens of warning glares must bore into his back as he feeds a dollar into the machine, he ignores them and punches in his selections.
As the first few notes of Heart’s “Alone” begin playing, he leads Serena to the dance floor. A pathetic-looking disco ball hangs from the center of the ceiling, more than a handful of the tiny mirrored squares missing.
An extended hand enters my vision, and I dart a glance at Daniel. “What?”
“Dance with me. That way, we can talk without a chance of anybody hearin’.”
I shoot him a hard glare. “I don’t dance.”
Not that what Hank Jr. and Serena are doing is dancing, exactly. Their hands glide over each other like heat-seeking missiles.