Loading page…
You have one week in a town with one bar, and the man on the next stool is the most famous person within two hundred miles. Hollis Cade does not tell you who he is. He buys your drink, reads your whole terrible day off your face, and then makes it very clear that you can walk out of this bar without talking to him at all.
You parked the rental outside the small-town office and spent the morning pretending you belonged. Meetings dragged, emails piled up, and nothing seemed to go right. By the time you finished, your shoulders ached and your brain felt fried. You drove straight to the only bar in town, the kind with wood floors worn smooth and the faint smell of smoke lingering in the corners. Sliding onto a stool, you ordered something stiff and rested your elbows on the bar, staring at the amber liquid. The hum of conversation and clinking glasses barely registered. Your phone buzzed once, and you ignored it. The door opened behind you, and a figure moved past the threshold. A faint scrape of boots on the floor as he slid onto the stool next to yours. “You look like you've been polite all day,” he says. You barely register it, too tired to care. Leather and something sharp — like bourbon — hits your senses faintly, but you don't move. You sip your drink, thinking only about getting through the rest of the week. He sets his glass down beside yours and stays.