I don’t know if they’re lost tourists or what, but they’re the best looking men we’ve seen here in months. Although I haven’t exactly been looking for anyone for a while. After my grandma passed away a few months ago and my parents left Jackson for a town almost an hour away in Idaho, I’ve been in a funk. This week was especially tough because the estate finally closed on Grandma’s house.
I loved that old farmhouse, the one Mom grew up in and I dreamed of living in one day. It’s only a couple blocks away from the town square, but after it was sold to some out of town investors it might as well be in another world. I loved that house growing up and had so many special moments there. From baking pastries with Grandma in the morning or sitting with her and Monica having a tea party on the balcony upstairs, that old house owns a piece of my heart. More recently, it was watching episodes of the Housewives of Honeycomb Ranch. Grandma loved that show and in her honor, it’s my new Friday night tradition to keep watching it—after going to Bridger’s of course because apparently all my traditions involve Friday night. While Mackenzie, the bartender, gets my beer, I pull my phone out to make sure tonight is a new episode and not a rerun.
When she comes back with my drink, I set my phone down on the bar. I grab the cool bottle and take myfirst drink when I feel a presence at my side. I turn and sure enough, Pretty Boy is standing right next to me, holding out two fingers in an attempt to flag down Mackenzie. His eyes stay focused on the end of the bar, where she’s helping another customer.
“She’ll be back in just a second, Pretty Boy.”
No. No, I didn’t just spew out verbal diarrhea from my clearly way too horny and bitchy subconscious.
I feel my cheeks heat from embarrassment. Normally, not having a filter is one of my favorite qualities but I instantly regret saying that. I don’t even know this guy and he hasn’t said a word to me.
I look away hiding my now rosy cheeks, but still peek at him from the corner of my eye. To his credit, he just snorts a laugh and smiles, not looking at me.
I take him in while he’s still less than arms reach away. Up close, his charming, boy-next-door looks are even harder to ignore. His medium length dark hair is mussed in a way that looks like it was infuriatingly easy for him to pull off, like he rolled out of bed looking like that. His stubbled cheeks still show just a hint of those dimples as he smiles in the direction of Mackenzie. He leans over the bar on his elbow, propping his chin up on his fist.
With the sleeves of his black and blue flannel shirt rolled up, I can see the mosaic of tattoos on each of his muscular forearms. There’s an assortment of food related tattoos, all in a traditional old school style with bold colors and timeless black lines. I see a wine bottle near his wrist next to a sliced tomato, a trout on a bed of greens, a chef’s knife on his upper forearm and is that…? No. That can’t be… a box of children’s cereal?
Filling the gaps between them are little stars and an assortment of bright and colorful tulips. There’s even a piece of pie on a plate with a ribbon over it that saysGloriaand looks as delicious as he does.
Mackenzie comes back with two beers and hands them over to him.
“Thanks,” he says. I wait for him to turn and leave, but seconds later I still feel him near me.
I turn back to find that he’s looking right at me, smiling.
“He might look scary, but he doesn’t bite. At least not hard anyway,” he says with a deep and raspy voice that does nothing to help cool my still heated cheeks.
I quirk a brow at him and hum in question. “Who doesn’t bite?”
His soft smile spreads into a grin that pops those dimples. He cocks his head toward the high-top where Monica is with Captain Control.
“My brother, Slade. I saw the way you were watching your friend. He’s totally harmless, at least to her anyways. He’s more of a Brooke than a Caroline honestly.”
“To her? And who are Brooke and Caroline?”
“Yeah, that didn’t sound great,” he says wincing. “I meant he’s harmless, as long as you’re not his idiot little brother that works for him.” Then he dips his chin toward my phone. “And I was talking about HHR. Brooke’s all bark and no bite. Caroline’s the villain.”
He sets a beer down and stretches out a hand. “Sutton. Full-time idiot brother and Pretty Boy. Part-time Housewives of Honeycomb Ranch enthusiast.”
I reach out and shake it, instantly feeling a tingle of electricity from his warm, firm grip and callused hands. My eyes drift down and I see just how worn they are—tiny nicks and scars litter the backs of his knuckles. He most definitely works with his hands. Or maybe his brother does in fact actually bite him. Either way, the idea of a man with those hands watching Housewives makes me chuckle.
“Kelsey. Local spewer of verbal diarrhea and full-time HHR enthusiast.”
A warm laugh rumbles up his chest and he continues to smile at me. I can’t bring myself to look away, shaking his hand for far too long because I’m not great in social situations like this. “Mind if I sit here? Figured I’d let whatever’s going on over there play out for a minute.”
I finally let go of his hand and gesture to the empty barstool.
What’s the worst that could happen letting him sit there? He’s good eye candy and should ward off any annoying guys tonight.
Looking back to the corner, Monica seems to be enjoying her conversation with his brother too. What kind of friend would I be if I put a damper on her night?
I hear the barstool creak under his weight when he sits. Judging by his height, those chorded forearms, and how he fills out that shirt, I’m willing to bet he’s built like a slab of granite.
“Thanks.” He tips his beer toward my friend and his brother. “I’m imagining this could be fun to watch.”
I take another sip of my beer, swirling it around my mouth before swallowing. “Oh, she’s totally going to eat him alive. He’s the first piece of fresh meat in here worth a damn in weeks, and she’s off work tomorrow.”
He snorts a laugh. “So, you’re a local girl. Noted.”