He rakes a hand over his dark stubbled jaw before his gaze collides with mine once again.
I have to give the man credit. Aside from his initial perusal of my entire face, his attention hasn’t been riveted to my left side. He looks me dead in the eyes, and I appreciate that more than I’d care to admit.
Dark brows furrow, a crease forming between them. “Sent back in time?”
If he’s simply stalling, I’m not planning to stop peppering him with questions until I get some of my own.
I lean in toward him a fraction, my voice hushed. “The way you scan the place is a lot like that Terminator dude. So, you’re either here to start the war against the machines or you’re an assassin.”
“Isn’t the Terminator technically an assassin?” He poses this nonchalantly as he does—you guessed it—another scan of the place.
“What exactly do you keep looking for? Some nefarious activity in the Freebird? Because I hate to break it to you, but the worst thing that happens here is when Duffy drinks more than his quota, starts playing darts, and puts more holes in the wall than the board.”
My expression sours as I survey the crowd tonight. Without meaning to expose so much, the admission rolls from my lips before I realize it. “Or when Randy pounds the beers and harasses me to sleep with him so he can bag what he calls ‘the town’s token scarred-up freak.’”
“He what?”
His tone is so dark and steely; it has my eyes colliding with his now icy ones. Long fingers, with tattooed designs along the knuckles, curl into fists. The others covering his forearms dance with the play of tensing muscles and tendons.
Annnnd, there it is. Something I haven’t had the pleasure of witnessing before: that undeniable alpha male protectiveness.
Sure, at least one of the guys will intervene if Randy increases his assholery to an epic level with me, but it’s not the same.
Two simple words—the way Daniel spoke them—combined with his fisted hands and the anticipatory tension radiating from him tells me he’d have no issue introducing Randy’s face to his fists.
Multiple times over.
What’s more impressive is that this man—this stranger—is outraged on my behalf. And it damn sure isn’t because he’s trying to get in my pants. He hasn’t once given me that impression.
I wave dismissively, hoping he’ll chill out. “Easy, tiger. It’s nothing new.”
“Doesn’t make it right.” He practically glares a hole through Randy’s back before returning his attention to me.
“Okay, so here’s a quick rundown.” I lift a finger to punctuate my first point. “It’s highly inadvisable to hurt Randy unless you want a ton of dipshits coming after you along with a lawsuit. Not worth it. Trust me.”
Fury gradually dwindles from the depths of his gaze.
I raise another finger. “Second, you haven’t told me what it is you actually do for a living, so that needs to be remedied. And three”—another raised finger—“I should also mention that I’m not sleeping with you.”
Those dark shadows that lie beneath his eyes appear to fade a bit, edging away to curiosity. He scrapes a hand down his face, and the way his palm lingers over his mouth gives me the impression he’s hiding a smile. But when he drops that hand, his features are placid, his gaze holding the same intensity.
“Wasn’t aware I was givin’ off that kinda message.”
“Didn’t say you were. I just like to be up front.” Especially since my instincts are screaming at me that he’s not like the others.
I’m not looking to get attached—I can’t afford to—and Daniel Madrano could easily make me want more than one night. He already makes me want to stop time and study him unabashedly. I’ve never had the urge to do that before.
Plus, that’s super fucking creepy. Even I can admit as much.
But this man… He possesses an air of safety and protection that makes me want to curl myself around him like a cat. It’s the strangest reaction I’ve ever had to a complete stranger.
Not only that, but I sense he’s multifaceted. His face tells a story all its own. Paired with those shadows that linger beneath his eyes, the sharp cut of his cheekbones and jawline appears harsh and unforgiving, as if to illustrate a past life that sliced him to shreds before he pieced himself together.
As I peer closer at his face, it’s the traces of scars that attest to my previous thought. A faint, mostly faded white line bisects his bottom lip while a few thicker, shorter ones sit above the high edge of one cheek. On the other side, a ragged-looking one descends from his jawline and into his neck.
It’s that one in particular that has my heart skipping a beat, because it could’ve easily ended his life had it nicked his carotid artery.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to get back on track. “Plus, the ninja thing does nothing for me—doesn’t turn me on in the least.
“And you’re obviously someone who works out enough to have veins in your forearms.” I casually point to his exposed arms, bared by his rolled and cuffed shirtsleeves.
“As for the rest of you”—I offer his flat midsection a cursory glance—“I’m not really into skinny men.”
He holds my stare, and I will myself not to be the first to look away. Is everything I said absolute bullshit? Basically. But he doesn’t need to know that.
One dark brow arches. “Not into men with hard abs, then, huh?”
“Nope.” I say this rather quickly, trying to erase the image of what it might look like beneath his shirt. Stop it. Just stop it.
That gleam of amusement grows brighter as he leans in toward me, his voice low and gravelly. “Are you into men who have big—”
“No,” I rush to interrupt firmly.
One edge of his mouth quirks upward. “Huh. And here I thought you’d appreciate a man with a big brain.”
I roll my eyes and face the bar. “That’s enough outta you, Danny,” I mutter before lifting my glass.
“It’s Daniel.” This time, his tone doesn’t possess the same steely undertone as before, and I hide my smirk as I toss back the rest of my whiskey.
A beat of silence passes. “How ’bout we talk somewhere there’s less of a chance of bein’ overheard?”
Before I can offer a response, the bar door swings open and multiple people call out, “Hank!” Or “Hey, Junior!” When their greetings change to booing, I swivel my barstool to see the reason.
It makes sense when I see the person Hank Jr.’s leading by the hand. Serena is a cashier from the grocery store a few blocks down the road, but by the starry-eyed way she watches Hank Jr., she doesn’t appear to take the booing or comments to heart.
This place is an unofficial haven for men wanting to get away from their wives, girlfriends, “ball and chain”—however they refer to them. Lucky for me, nobody ever batted an eye the first time I stepped foot in this bar years ago after I took over the salvage yard.
It’s probably because they don’t see me as desirable because of my scars, and I don’t fit the bill as far as the usual Southern belle goes. I’m more at home having my hands dirty with engine oil or grease than dusted with flour and vegetable oil while I slave over a hot stove for a man.