1 Chapter 1: "I'm rusty..."

LENA

I shifted on my barstool and glanced to the front of the bar where Oliver sat with his rowdy sports-obsessed friends. I demoted him, Ollie to Oliver, the asshole roommate who dragged me out of the house on this beautiful fall evening, insisting that I "get out and have some fun." Then, the game came on, his friends wandered in, and I was perfectly fine not being associated with their grandiose whoops and whistles. At least hunkered down at the back corner of the bar, I could pretend like they were strangers.

I stabbed the black straw through the ice in my black cherry mojito and considered finding my own way home. But Ollie would intercept me at the door, apologize for getting distracted, and we'd leave. It might not sound like the worst idea, but I was stewing. Punishing him with a silent treatment he had yet to notice. Really smart, Lena.

"Tall Smithwicks."

A deep male voice startled me, and I glanced up from my drink long enough to see a tall dark-haired man, claim the seat right next to me.

Shit. I tried to look straight ahead.

I'd gotten lucky since no one had taken the seat earlier, but most people had been arriving in small groups or pairs, so the lone seat next to me had been safe since Oliver ran off. Not anymore.

My new neighbor practically filled the entire void between me and the next person. He was smaller than Oliver, but it wasn't hard to be smaller than a man who pushed 7' in bare feet, and yet this guy seemed a hundred times more imposing with his sculpted forearm resting on the wooden bar, inches from my comparatively miniscule wrist.

As I resumed my staring contest with the cherry floating in my drink - trying to move as little as possible so I wouldn't attract any unnecessary attention - I made a silent plea that he'd be far more interested in the game than the lone blonde at the end of the bar. Thus far, everyone else had. Or, better yet, maybe he'd take his drink and find somewhere else to settle in for the evening. Perhaps with a group of friends waiting somewhere.

The bartender glanced in my direction while he filled a tall stein at the taps. Cade was a standard sight at Diggers and hard to miss with his broad shoulders and shaved head. It had been months since Ollie had convinced me to join him at the tiny sports bar, but while the rest of the staff seemed new, neither Cade nor the rustic dark-wooden décor had changed. Cade still wore his black long-sleeved dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows, and dark jeans that looked like they'd seen better days.

When the stein in his hand was filled to the brim with reddish-amber liquid and topped with a thick layer of foam, he sat it in front of my neighbor and gave him a quick nod before moving back to the other side of the bar where a couple of college students were getting rowdy over empty shot glasses.

As the man next to me adjusted in his seat and lifted the glass to his lips, I got the impression he didn't intend to move anytime soon.

I sat back and my gaze drifted over him again. To give him his well-deserved credit, he wasn't bad to look at. Okay, he was drool-inducing handsome, which made this even more awkward. He sat at least a head taller than me, clean shaven with dark hair tapered on the sides and slightly longer and messy on top. His dark-green T-shirt was just tight enough on his frame to make out his lean chest and shoulders. I suspected he had a six-pack hidden in there.

I'd always thought beer tasted like mildewed wood, but as I watched him take another swig, my throat felt parched with the overwhelming temptation to give it another shot.

He lowered his glass and glanced in my direction, so I averted my gaze to the TV overhead and the sports game, hoping he hadn't noticed me being a total creeper. But the blood heating my face certainly wouldn't pass as casual.

At the edge of my vision, I saw him turn slightly on his stool to face me. Busted. My heart rate sped - doing nothing to help my flushed face. His gaze combed over me from my tangled wavy hair, over my baggy T-shirt, to my jeans and sneakers. Ollie had barely convinced me not to wear my pajamas.

Thank goodness for his small victory.

"You hang out here often?" he asked.

My insides had already liquified, but I kept my eyes on the TV. "That all you got for an opening line?"

"I'm rusty." He took another long swig of beer, but his eyes remained focused on me.

"Rusty, huh? Fitting name." Damn it, Lena, way to not draw more attention to yourself. Where in the hell did that come from?

I clung to my glass a little tighter and tried to take a casual sip. Casual, right, with my throat feeling like it was about to close up, coming off as causal was about as likely as making it out of this mess with my dignity intact. To make matters worse, I almost spat the liquid back out as soon as it hit my tongue. My once fruity, minty alcohol now tasted like ice sweat.

He chuckled, sliding his empty glass to the back of the bar.

"Let's stick with Rusty." I pursed my lips to keep back a smile. What am I doing?

Whatever it was, I couldn't help myself. Despite my tight chest and shaky hands, the words just seemed to slip out.

"What should I call you, loner?"

I straightened my back and met his gaze - strangely, I felt as if I could play this game, even if I had no clue what it was. "Loner works."

I deemed it a throwaway night. I'd never see this man again, because I swore Oliver would never drag me out for drinks again. If it weren't only for the booze, people, and sports, I already had a stockpile of spoiled memories here.

Rusty nodded toward the television. "You a fan?"

"Not really." I realized the implication of my admission a little too late. Now he'll wonder why you were staring so intently at the screen.

"Then you're in the wrong place tonight, sweetheart."

Ignoring the fact that he'd just called me sweetheart, I pushed my glass to the back of the bar. I needed more alcohol for this bad idea, but my drink was intolerable. "Glutton for punishment, I guess."

Rusty's eyes narrowed on me for a second, then he snapped his gaze away and toward the screen, wincing at what I guessed was a bad play. The chorus of groans from Oliver's table quickly affirmed my assumption.

"You like the white-shirts?" I had no idea who the teams were or where they were from and didn't care to find out, but as I'd just deemed myself a glutton for punishment, I was keen to shift the conversation in a different direction.

"White-shirts?" He chucked, narrowing his hazel-eyed gaze on me again. "You're really not a sports fan. Or not from around here. And yeah, I guess I'm a glutton for punishment, too."

He motioned for the bartender who was still involved in some heated debate at the other end of the bar. Rusty lifted his empty glass and swirled it around in the air. Cade gave him a thumbs-up and a few minutes later, sat a full stein in front of Rusty, grabbing the empty and setting it on the sink behind the bar.

Then, Cade pressed his palms against the bar and leaned toward me. "He bothering you?"

I sat back, caught off guard, and glanced between him and Rusty. I felt my mouth open, but no response would come out with them both staring at me like that. Does he know something I don't?