Page 36 of Micah
Like he's making sure everyone else gets through the door before he does.
Quiet.
Bearded.
Broad enough to block out half the light spilling through the entrance from outside.
His faded gray T-shirt stretches across a chest that looks carved from old oak, the sleeves hugging tattooed forearms dusted with dark hair.
Scuffed boots. Dark jeans. No hat.
Never a hat.
He doesn't stride into a room.
He assesses it.
Those pale blue eyes sweep over every table, every customer, every exit in one smooth, practiced motion that somehow feels more military than cowboy.
Nothing escapes him.
I wait for it. Almost buzzing with angst.
Then...
His gaze finds me.
Not my smile.
Not my curves.
Me.
All of me.
It only lasts a heartbeat.
Maybe two.
Long enough to make my pulse skip.
Short enough that I wonder if I imagined it.
Then he's looking away again, expression unreadable, like the moment never happened.
Funny thing is it happens every time he comes in.
And every time, I tell myself I'm going to stop noticing.
But I can’t seem to help it.
Weird man.
He never flirts.
Never smiles much.
Never orders more than a burger and beer. Sometimes wings.
