She smiles, and a dimple appears on her left cheek, and I have the sudden urge to kiss it.
I shake it off. "You old enough to be drinkin’ in a bar, honey?"
It comes out before I can stop it—half flirt, half genuine question.
She doesn't miss a beat, just gives me a look that's equal parts amused and unimpressed.
“I’m twenty-two. And you’re old enough to know better than to call a woman you don’t knowhoney.” She slides onto the stool and catches the bartender's eye. "Whiskey sour, please." Then she turns back to me, eyebrow raised.
My bad. “My apologies, Miss.”
She shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t mind.” And there's that dimple again. The little devil. "I'm Kaylee." She extends her hand. Her grip is warm and firm and she holds it a beat longer than a handshake requires.
Then I come to the fork in the road.
I could tell her the truth.
I could say:My name's Dean Archer, I have a criminal record, and on Monday I start work somewhere in this town. I'm terrified I'm going to screw it up. I'm terrified I already am, sitting here next to you, since you're the kind of woman I should stay far away from—not because you're dangerous, but because I am.
"Tom," I finally offer. "Nice to meet you, Kaylee."
The name comes out easily, practiced. And I hate how easy it is.
But this is a small town. People talk. If she Google’s my real name, she finds the conviction in thirty seconds. She mentions it to a friend, who mentions it to someone else, who mentions it to a guest at the camp, and suddenly my new boss is defending his decision to hire a felon before I've logged a single hour of work.
Connor took a risk on me. I'm not going to make him regret it before I've even started.
"Tom," she repeats, like she's trying it on. "You look like a Tom."
“And what’s that?”
"I don't know. Kind of..." She waves her hand at my face. "Rugged. Handsome. Dependable. Like you'd know how to change a tire and wouldn't make a big deal about it."
"That might be the most flattering thing anyone's ever said to me."
"That's a little sad, Tom."
"Yeah, well. Set the bar low enough and everything's a compliment."
She chuckles, but her eyes tell me she’s logging the self-deprecating crap. "So what brings you to the thriving metropolis of Deepwood?" she asks, leaning one elbow on the bar. Up close, those brown eyes have flecks of pale gold in them, the same shade as her hair.
"Contract work. Timber stuff." I shrug, keeping it vague. "Just passing through before a job starts up north. What about you?"
"I work in hospitality." She takes a sip of her whiskey sour. "Lots of pretending things don't bother me and remembering people's kids' names."
"Sounds exhausting."
"Oh, it is. But I'm weirdly good at it. I think it's because I actually like people. Most of the time." She smiles.
"Where were you before here?"
"Eastern Montana. Little town I guarantee you've never heard of. A place where the highlight of the year is the county fair and everyone knows your business before you do." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Not unlike here, really. I guess I like the way small towns feel. I moved here two years ago fora job. Hadn't really planned to stay, but then I kind of...I don't know, fell into everything. Found my people. And now I can't imagine leaving." She catches herself, cheeks coloring slightly. “Sorry, that’s—more than you probably wanted to know.”
“Sounds like just the right amount.” I give her a crooked smile.
She returns it, andgod, that dimple. “Most people ask that question and don't really want the full answer. They want you to say, 'Oh, I'm from here,' so they can move on to talking about themselves."
"I'm not most people."