href="#uf15294d4-0168-505d-932e-768e2adc8217">CHAPTER FOURTEEN
COMPANY OF ANY kind wasn’t on Bran Murphy’s mind when he walked into the tavern. His plan was to find a stool at the bar well away from anyone else.
But there she was, sitting alone, with hair the color of dark honey laced with sunbeams flowing in waves down her back.
He let his gaze pause on her only briefly before he scanned the entire room. As with most cops, looking for trouble had become automatic. He didn’t spot any tonight. A local country band played a ballad and three couples shuffled on the small dance floor. A crowd hooted and called good-natured insults around the pool tables. People seemed to be having a good time.
He locked onto her.
She’d chosen to sit at one end of the bar, six stools separating her from the closest patron, a man hunched morosely over his drink. Completely still, she looked even more alone than the physical distance suggested. Her head was bent and she seemed to be gazing into her drink as if the glass held tea leaves that would reveal arcane secrets.
Nothing about her suggested that she sought companionship. Giving in to impulse for the second time tonight, Bran took the stool only one away from hers anyway.
She glanced his way, giving him a glimpse of a perfect oval face and gray-green eyes filled with grief or anger, he couldn’t be sure. Then she went back to pondering the mixed drink she hadn’t touched.
“Are you all right?” he asked, even though he hadn’t walked in here with any intention of being sociable, either. In fact, he didn’t know why he was here. He should have stopped at the store for a bottle of whiskey or a couple of six-packs of dark beer and gotten stinking drunk in the privacy of his apartment. But the first impulse of the evening, a sudden one, had made him turn into the tavern parking lot instead.
Hell, maybe this was smarter. He wouldn’t let himself get so drunk he couldn’t drive home, which meant he wouldn’t feel quite so shitty come morning.
On his wedding day.
“I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean,” the blonde said, softly enough he had to lean toward her to hear.
Bran signaled the bartender, ordering a pitcher instead of the whiskey he’d intended.
Looked like he had something in common with the blonde. Sure as hell, neither of them was here to celebrate.
He nodded his thanks for the pitcher and poured himself a glass, then took a swallow.
“You want to talk about it?”
She gave that some thought before answering. “No.” This time she studied him. “If you’re planning to hit on me, you’re wasting your time.”
“Hadn’t crossed my mind,” he told her, although that wasn’t entirely true. No, it hadn’t, but it would have eventually, and now that the subject had been introduced, his mind stuck on it.
“Oh. Okay,” she said.
Damn, she was beautiful. Her tan was more pale gold than brown, her nose small, her mouth pretty... Skinny jeans molded to slim legs that he thought might prove to be reasonably long. Well-rounded hips and generous breasts suggested she had a genuine hourglass figure. Bran liked curves.
Paige hadn’t had many of those.
She went to the gym almost daily, determined to pare every hint of extra flesh from her body. As the wedding approached, she’d become fanatical about her diet and exercise, striving for some notion of perfection that wasn’t his. He’d given up reasoning with her. In fact, he hadn’t had much chance, since wedding preparations made her even more unavailable than she’d already been.
Paige wasn’t here. A beautiful blonde was.
As he watched, she finally picked up her glass and guzzled what looked like a mixed drink as if it was water and she was parched. A shudder went through her before she plunked the glass down on the polished bar.
The bartender, a balding guy in his forties, appeared. “You want another one? Whiskey sour, right?”
“Yes, please.”
Her choice suggested she wasn’t much of a drinker.
Bran was on his second glass when the band began another ballad. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dance floor empty.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
The blonde blinked as if she was having trouble bringing him into focus, but her voice sounded clear. “Okay.”
She slid off the bar stool and into his arms as if she belonged there. She might be five foot six, he guessed, which made his shoulder a perfect resting place for her head.
He barely moved his feet. Mostly, they swayed. He didn’t press her as close as he would have liked, figuring it wouldn’t be gentlemanly, given that he had a serious hard-on. Bran closed his eyes and rested his cheek against her head, inhaling a familiar scent that threw him back a lot of years. Mint.
A patch of the plant had grown beside the back steps of his childhood home. Even brushing the leaves was enough to awaken the fragrance. His mom used to make a sweetened drink with orange and lemon juice, orange peels and mint leaves pulled from that plant.
Until this moment, he’d forgotten all about that drink and how much he loved it. Twenty-five years was a long time.
He nuzzled the honey-colored hair, as smooth and luxuriously textured as heavy satin. The woman in his arms moved her head a little, as if she was rubbing her cheek against him. She gave a small sigh that shot straight to his groin.
The last notes of the song died, but neither of them moved for a minute. Finally, reluctantly, he released her. Her hands slid down his chest and she stepped back, shy.
Back on their bar stools, he said, “I’m Bran. Short for Brandon.” He held out a hand.
She slowly extended her much smaller, fine-boned hand. “Lina. Short for Alina.”
“Lina.” He liked that. “Well, Lina, what do you usually do for fun?”
She crinkled her nose. “Not this. Um... I’m a huge reader. Movies are fine, but usually I’d rather read.”
He
