And I stand there and stare at her, not ashamed that I do. She’s average in height with a slender neck that’s more noticeable now that her mass of dark brown hair is pulled up in some type of knot on the top of her head.

She removes her jacket as I finish wiping down the bar, and I watch her take a few steps inside. The quick look she takes is one I’ve seen too many times to count in my time standing behind this bar. The one that’s gauging what table she can sit at that will keep her out of the limelight for the night.

The problem? We’re a packed house tonight, and there aren’t any tables to be had. The only vacant seat is the one toward the end of the bar.

Harley sees it and makes her way through the mess of chairs and tables before sitting at it. I may take my time working my way over to her, but there is no way in hell I’m going to let my other bartender take her order.

“I’m happy to say I was wrong,” I say as I move to the tap in front of her.

Harley looks up at me with a pair of light blue eyes framed by thick lashes and pink cheeks. Other than some gloss on her lips, she isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, but that in and of itself is enough to knock a man off his stride.

She’s simply stunning. High cheekbones. A pale complexion with flawless skin and a dusting of freckles across her nose. And her lips. They’re full and parted as she stares at me with so many thoughts running through her eyes that remain unspoken.

“About?” she asks.

“You showing back up here.” I lean my hips on the counter behind me and cross my arms over my chest.

“And that’s your business, why?” she asks and then immediately sighs with a soft shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound so bitchy.” She offers a half-smile. “It’s just been a long day, and frustration seems to be the name of the game lately.”

“Sounds like your detour here was par for the course.”

“Something like that.” She snorts and plays with the edges of the cocktail napkin sitting on the bar in front of her.

“You never told me where you were headed,” I say as I reach for a bottle of wine and pour a glass of white zin.

Her shrug is as unenthusiastic as her response. “My excuse to myself was that I had to go deliver some papers to my brother, but honestly, I just needed to go.”

I purse my lips, nod in understanding, and slide the glass of wine in front of her.

“What’s this?” she asks.