He envied what Rowan had with Lara, what Marcus had with Jewel, what Scott had with Fiona. And he wondered why he’d never met a woman who made him think in terms of marriage and forever. Okay, having spent the better part of the last twelve years on board a ship might have something to do with it. Add to that the uncertainty of never knowing if the women he’d been with were genuinely interested in him or only attracted to his title or his uniform, and it probably wasn’t surprising that he’d reached the age of thirty-six without ever having been in a long-term, committed relationship. Still, the realization wasn’t going to fill his life or keep him warm in bed at night.
The rumble of his stomach finally broke through his introspection and a neon sign announcing Shea’s Bar & Grill snagged his attention.
Despite the fact that the building was smack in the middle of nowhere, there were several vehicles—mostly dust-covered pickup trucks—in the parking lot. His empty stomach again protested his decision to leave his friend’s ranch before dinner and he flicked on his indicator to make the turn.
He parked his shiny rental between an ancient red pickup and a mud-splattered Jeep and sat for a moment, wondering if he would look as out of place in the bar as his vehicle did in the parking lot. A man who’d grown up in the public eye wouldn’t usually worry about such things, but Eric had become more sensitive to the attention—and the speculation that surrounded him—since the accident.
He pushed out of the car, slowly limped toward the entrance. The deliberate, unhurried movements helped ease the stiffness from his hip so that he was walking almost normally by the time he reached the door. His therapist had warned that he might always have the limp and the discomfort—at the time, he’d thought it was a small price to pay for being alive. When he’d had to leave the navy, he’d realized the physical scars weren’t the biggest price.
A sign inside the door invited him to seat himself. He bypassed several empty tables around the perimeter of the dance floor and made his way to the bar. As he slid onto a vacant stool, he forgot about his hip and everything else as he glimpsed a vision that was more impressive than anything he’d seen while sightseeing in Texas.
Hermoso…espectacular…perfecto.
Her hair was as dark as midnight and tumbled over her shoulders like a silky waterfall. She was wearing a deep, V-neck shirt that revealed just a hint of cleavage and was tucked into slimfitting jeans that molded to narrow hips and long legs.
His gaze skimmed upward again and locked with hers.
He felt a sharp tug of attraction deep in his belly, an almost painful yearning, and he could tell by the sudden widening and darkening of eyes the color of a clear summer sky that she was experiencing the same sensation. Instantaneous, raw and powerful.
But then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled easily.
“Hey, handsome.” The slow Texas drawl made him think of lazy Sunday mornings spent lounging in bed—and wasn’t that an unexpectedly intriguing image? “What can I get for you?”
She smiled again, and suddenly he was wanting a lot more than he’d come in for, but he forced himself to respond just as casually. “A beer would be good.”
She grabbed a clean mug from the shelf behind her. “Any particular kind?”
He tore his gaze from the stunning face to glance at the labels on the taps. He noted the familiar Amstel, Heineken and Beck’s brands, but opted for one that he guessed would have a more local flavor. “Lone Star.”
She tipped the glass beneath the nozzle to catch the ambercolored liquid that flowed out. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
She slid the beer across the bar to him. “Well, you don’t sound like a local, and if you were, I would have seen you before now.”
He didn’t think she was flirting with him exactly. But she seemed, if not interested, at least curious, and he couldn’t resist testing the waters.
“You don’t remember?” he asked, his tone intended to convey both disbelief and disappointment.
She made change for the ten he gave her and leaned across the bar in a way that greatly enhanced his view of her cleavage. “If I don’t remember, you obviously didn’t make much of an impression.”
He grinned at her quick response and lifted his glass to his lips as she moved down the bar to serve another customer.
He’d struck out with the sexy bartender, but it was his first time at bat after a long absence from the plate and, the way he figured it, it was only the top of the first inning. There was a lot of the game still to be played.
Eric ordered a barbecued pork sandwich with a side of spicy fries and washed it down with another draft as he watched the woman who’d eventually introduced herself as Molly Shea check on her customers at the bar. She took a moment to chat with each one as if they were all old friends, and he knew some of them probably were.
“How long have you been a bartender?” he asked her.
She poured a glass of water and squeezed a wedge of lime into it. “Forever.”
“Has it always been your ambition?”
“It’s honest work,” she said.
“I wasn’t implying otherwise,” he told her. “You just seem like a woman who could do so much more.”
“I can make all the fanciest drinks,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. “But we don’t have much call for them here.”
“You’re determined not to give away anything about yourself, aren’t you?”
“Bartenders don’t make confessions, they listen to them.”
“I thought that was just a stereotype.”
“I used to think so, too. But I learned quickly that a sympathetic ear and a shot of Scotch whiskey is a lot more successful at loosening tongues than a long couch and a fifty-minute clock.”
His gaze skimmed over her face. “The ears are nice,” he agreed. “But I’ll bet it has a lot more to do with your soft voice and warm smile.” And the idea of this woman on a long couch—minus the fifty-minute clock—was more than a little intriguing.
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked. “Are you looking to unburden your soul?”
“My soul isn’t burdened.”
Her only response was to raise her eyebrows.
“No more than most,” he clarified.
She smiled at that, and he felt a funny little kick in his belly. It was lust, he was certain of it. Certain that what he was feeling for this intriguing bartender couldn’t be any more than that.
Eric picked up his cup and frowned when he found it empty. He’d switched to coffee after his second draft, and he’d already had one refill, making him wonder just how long he’d been sitting at the bar.
“It’s almost eleven,” Molly told him, somehow anticipating his question as she brought the pot over to refill his cup again. “Isn’t there somewhere else you should be?”
“Not anymore,” he told her.
Her eyes were unexpectedly sympathetic as she asked, “Did she kick you out?”
“Who?”
“Whoever’s responsible for that lost look in your eyes.”
“No one kicked me out.” Then he smiled at her. “Not yet, anyway.”
She laughed. “You’ve got another hour.”
He was still there at the end of the hour.
And Molly was still as conscious of his presence