Page 2 of Until You

I’m only half-listening. I’m still cataloging him as if I’ll need to recall every part of him from memory at a later date. The nose that’s been broken at least once and healed a little crooked. The deep-set eyes of an indeterminate color. The jawline.

That jawline. Shadowed with half a day’s worth of stubble and so sharp it could ruin a girl’s entire evening.

Hell, jawlines like that make women like me stupid.

“Military, you think?” Hope murmurs.

“Or cop,” Jules adds. “Or serial killer.”

I snort. “Those are wildly different options.”

“Not really,” Jules says, perfectly serious. “Common denominator is emotionally unavailable.”

“Lucky for me,” I say, reaching for my drink, “that’s exactly what I’m looking for tonight.”

Jules gives me a look that says she believes exactly none of that. “So you are planning to eventually walk over there?”

I open my mouth to respond, but then I stop. Because the man in question just looked over. And he caught me staring right at him.

His gaze finds mine across the whole length of the bar—steady and unhurried, like he’s been waiting for me to look long enough to look back. Like he doesn’t flinch away from things once he’s decided they’re worth watching.

He takes a long pull off his beer, his eyes still locked on me. Then he does that thing I think I’ve only ever seen in movies… he touches the brim of his hat with one finger and gives me a slight nod.

“Oh holy shit,” Hope breathes.

“I think I just came,” Jules says.

Hope doesn’t even chastise our friend this time because, yeah, that whole across-the-room cowboy greeting was sexy as fuck.

And still, I don’t look away.

Neither does he.

Something moves in the air between us—not soft, not sweet. Something with an edge to it. Something that tastes like the moment right before you do the thing you know you shouldn’t.

I’ve been here before, standing on this exact ledge.

I’ve never wanted to jump quite this badly.

“Go,” Jules says, nudging my foot hard under the table.

“I don’t need a push.”

“Cora. Honey. You are white-knuckling that drink.”

I look down. She’s not wrong. I set the glass down.

Hope grins. “Live your best life, babe. Just—maybe don’t fall in love tonight.”

“Please,” I say, already sliding off my stool. “I don’t even know his name.”

“Exactly,” Jules calls after me. “Keep it that way.”

I can feel my heart beating in my throat as I cross from my table to the bar. Cowboy’s heated gaze is still locked on mine.

Here’s the thing about names.

Names are a thread. Pull one and suddenly there’s a whole sweater unraveling—where are you from, what do you do, what are you looking for. And then you’re sitting across from someone at two in the morning, telling them about growing up in foster care and how you got your first tattoo when you were sixteen, shortly after you failed out of high school.