Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Favorite color?” Deacon asks.
“Blue. You?”
“Blue.”
I nod. “Are you happy being a lawyer?” I know that my father, and even Robert, became lawyers for the money and the power. I don’t see that in Deacon, and I’m honestly curious to know if he enjoys his job.
“I do enjoy it. I like helping people. Being a small town lawyer means I deal with more than just one subject matter.” He pauses and then tells me more. “We weren’t poor growing up, but there were definitely times of struggle. I wanted a career that would allow me to provide for my future family, and hopefully not have to struggle financially. I also always knew that I wanted to come back to Willow River after college. This is my home, and while some run from small-town life, I missed it. I wanted a career that would allow me to do that.”
“One of the good ones,” I mutter softly.
“Why the Willow Tavern?” he asks, taking a sip of his water.
I lean forward on the counter, resting my weight on my elbows. “It’s not anything near as inspiring as your reasoning. When a job came open, Hank assured me tips would be good, especially on the night shifts, and weekends, in addition to my regular salary. Palmer and I were actually here having drinks. We’d both just turned twenty-one.” My face heats at the confession, reminding us both of our age differences. “I saw the sign, asked one of the waitresses, and Hank interviewed me on the spot. I started the next night, requesting the nights he claimed would bring me more tips, and here I am.”
“So you requested this shift?”
“I did. At the time it made sense. I could work my other job during the day and work here at night. I was determined to build a nest egg for myself.”
“And have you done that? Built your nest egg?” he asks.
“I have. I don’t ever want to rely on someone else to take care of me.”
He nods and opens his mouth to speak, but a customer comes to the bar for a refill, and I walk away before he can, feeling raw and exposed.
“What’s going on there?” Tabitha, my coworker, asks. It’s just the two of us left tonight. Hank wasn’t exaggerating when he said this weekend was slow. Hank is still in his office. He never leaves any of us here on our own, and that’s one of the reasons I love working here. He ensures we are all safe.
“What’s going on with what?” I pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about. We both know I’m full of shit.
“What’s going on with the fact that that man sitting at the end of the bar has been here for hours and only has eyes for you? I’ve seen several women try to talk to him, and he wants nothing to do with them.”
She’s not wrong. Every time another woman approaches Deacon, vying for his attention, I heave a sigh of relief when he sends them on their way. Every time, his eyes find mine, and he gives me a smile, a nod, and this most recent time, a wink. I can feel his eyes on me no matter where I am in the room. It’s both unnerving and exhilarating at the same time.
“I didn’t notice.”
“I call bullshit.” Tabitha laughs. “He’s waiting for you, and everyone in this bar knows it.”
She’s not wrong, but what I can’t figure out is why. There are all the heated looks, and his declaration that he’s not leaving until I do, and then the whole “I can’t stop thinking about you” confession. I’m surprised I can even function with having his eyes on me all night. Thankfully it’s been a very slow night, and almost everyone here is ordering draft. You can’t really mess up draft.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. He’s my best friend’s older brother. He’s just being nice.”
“Oh, sweetie, if you call the looks that man has been giving you nice, then we need to sit down and have a talk.”
“I-I don’t know. I know he’s here for me. I know he says he’s not leaving until I do. After that, I just don’t know.”
“What do you want?” She must see the confused look on my face and takes pity on me. “Do you want him? Do you like the idea of him staying until you get off work? Do you want to go home with him? Do you want him to walk you to your car and send you on your way? What do you want?” She points a long, manicured nail my way.
“I want… I’m not really sure.” I don’t bother to tell her I’ve never been given the choice before. I was never allowed to choose who I dated, or hell, even what I wore on those dates. This is all new to me.