“I prefer to open it myself.” The stranger pulled his keys out from his bag. A bottle opener was attached to the ring, along with a pile of other keys. Rachel raised her eyebrows before leaning over and handing him the unopened bottle. This was a new one on her.
“Don’t you trust me?” Her voice rose up a little at the end. Jeez, was she flirting with this guy?
“Don’t take it personal, sweetheart. I don’t trust anybody.” Though his words were serious, there was a lightness to his tone. She could feel her lips drying up again. Was it normal for a heart to beat that fast?
“I bet you never drink draft.”
“Depends where I am.” He passed her the cap, their skin glancing briefly as he transferred the metal disc into her hand. She closed her fingers around it, the jagged metal edges biting into her palm. Moistening her lips again, she tried not to stare at his mouth and the small scar leading from the corner to his jaw. She really wanted to ask him how he got it.
Every scar told a story; life had taught her that. If she traced it with her fingers, she wondered if she’d be able to read him like a blind man reading braille, the raised skin telling secrets his lips never could. When he tried to sleep at night, did his scar burn as much as hers?
She turned away, throwing the cap into the trash can beneath the bar, swallowing away the bitter taste of her memories.
“Shit, I needed that.” His voice was low and mellow, his beer already half gone. If Rachel had drunk that much in one go, she’d be weaving all over the bar by now. The way she was feeling, maybe it would have been a good idea.
“You new in town?” She leaned on the counter, resting her chin on her hand.
The stranger looked at her through dark green eyes and placed the bottle down in front of him. His lips were damp with beer, foam clinging to them like jetsam to a wave. He licked it away with a swipe of his tongue.
“I’ve got some business in Addison. I took a wrong turn back on the highway and ended up here.” Running a large finger around the rim of his bottle, he glanced up at her. “The weather isn’t looking too hot, so I thought I’d take a break.”
She wondered what kind of business he had in the next town over.
“Is it looking like snow?” A native Bostonian, she was used to the cold weather. It made her laugh every time snow ground things to a halt.
“Cold enough to.” He took another mouthful. “I guess we’ll see.”
“I’m Rachel, by the way.” She offered her hand to him, and he shook it fiercely. Her cheeks burned when they touched.
“Murphy.”
She assumed it was his surname, but his short words and his large body made her afraid to ask. He seemed closed off, filled with muscle and adrenaline. Energy radiated from him, washing over her skin, making her feel edgy and out of sorts. She wasn’t sure if she liked the sensation.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Murphy.” She was reluctant to pull her hand away, liking the way his fist warmed her skin. For a moment she stood still, her eyes fixed on his, and gave her body up to the strange feelings shooting through it.
“I’m fixing for one last drink, honey,” Jace called from farther up the bar. “Can you make it a pint this time?” Unlike Murphy, Jace drank both bottle and draft, often choosing the microbrew when he had the cash. His win tonight had obviously oiled his wallet.
Rachel pulled her hand back and twisted to grab a fresh glass. Tipping it forty-five degrees beneath the tap, she pulled the handle on the bar until the beer started to flow. It had taken her a while to learn the right way to pour, but now she was an expert, always managing to get around half an inch of foam at the top of the glass.
Jace took the proffered beer and handed Rachel the
exact change. His fingers curled around hers and she had to pull back, trying not to notice when he smiled at her in his crooked, half-hopeful way. She shook her head, as much in amusement as denial, and walked back to Murphy. Sometimes, she wondered if Jace would ever get the hint.
Murphy continued to tap against the bar with his large fingertips, even though the music had stopped. For a long moment she wanted to hop over the counter, feed some coins into the jukebox, and get the big guy to dance with her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really let herself go.
“That your boyfriend?” he asked, sounding mildly curious.
“Jace?” she clarified, her voice incredulous. “Hell, no. I’m not a cradle robber.”
Murphy raised his brow. “He can’t be much different in age to you. How old are you anyway?”
Rachel laughed, catching his eye again. A half-smile was pulling at his lips, and he was leaning forward, like he really wanted to know. “Didn’t your momma teach you it was rude to ask that sort of question?”
“Come on. You can’t be any older than twenty-five.” Murphy winked at her.
“I’m twenty-eight, and Jace is twenty-one. It isn’t happening.”
Glancing sideways in Jace’s direction, Rachel thought it wouldn’t happen even if he was older. He’d lived in Hillbrook all his life, gone to school with the same boys he worked with, and knew the first names of pretty much everybody who lived in the town. He thought of Rachel as a “purty” lady with a strange accent, a nice simple girl like the ones who worked in the mine offices.