Page 62 of In Every Chapter

A mustached man eyed us as we settled into the stools at the counter. “Time for a rematch, huh?” His gaze lingered just a little too long—a little too leering—on me, and I shifted closer to Greyson.

Greyson glared at the man. “Get moving, Denver.”

Denver huffed lightly, lifting his hand in defense. “Right. Let’s get this over with.” He turned back to the TV screen and fiddled with the remote, adding with a mutter, “No harm in looking.”

My face burned, skin crawling. What a toad.

Greyson sprang to his feet, leaning across the counter. “Don’t you dare disrespect my wife,” he growled.

My hero.

“I’ll take it from here,” Marcel said, stepping forward, nudging Denver away with more force than necessary.

I stared at the wiry grey-bearded barkeeper with a red bandana tied around his forehead and a leather biker vest over a faded T-shirt. “I’ve never heard you talk!” With Denver disappearing into the back room, it was easier to breathe now.

Marcel, bless him, dipped his chin at me. “Glad to see you’re doing well, Ms. Paisley. Shirley Temple? It’s on the house.”

“You’re the best!” I wiggled on the barstool, beaming at the man.

Marcel slid my drink across the counter without a word—back to his mime routine—but if I wasn’t mistaken, his neck was a bit red under the collar.

“Sorry about Denver,” Greyson said gruffly, retaking his seat.

Butterflies still fluttering in my stomach from his heroics, I gave a shy half shrug. “He’s always given me the creeps. Why does he still work here?”

Greyson scoffed lightly. “Because his father owns the place. He should have been fired years ago.”

“Caterpillar-lipped nepo baby.”

He snorted, covering it with a cough. “Warn a man, Pais.”

“Laughter looks good on you.”

His humour faded into quiet surprise, and the frankness of my words had me backpedaling. I didn’t know how to flirt, and I wasn’t trying to. Best course of action? Keep my mouth shut.

That lasted three seconds.

A quote with fill in the blanks flashed across the screen, and I smacked the buzzer with repeated excitement. “Ooh, I know! I know!”

I wasn’t sure if Greyson let me win or if I really just did better than him, but I was taking the victory for what it was. And after he bought me a celebratory Shirley Temple, the music started. The girls and I used to line dance the few times we’d come out here in college. I hadn’t done it in ages. My foot tapped lightly to the beat.

“Wanna dance?” I asked Greyson, hopefully.

He hesitated only a moment before nodding. “All right.”

But it wasn’t exactly a line dance. Rascal Flatts’s “Bless the Broken Road” was more of a slow dance that put me in way too close proximity to Greyson’s chest. And his face. And those gorgeous blue eyes.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it felt nice to be held, swaying back and forth to the music. A nearly perfect date.

By the time we headed home, my cheeks hurt from grinning. “Any plans tonight?” I asked, opening the fridge and peering in curiously. We’d eaten dinner at Downto’n, but dessert sounded heavenly.

Greyson shook his head. “I thought about finishing my journey through Middle Earth.”

“Which one are you on?”

“The Return of the King.”

I sighed contentedly. “My favourite.” My eyes fluttered shut, and I whispered, “‘Hope and memory shall live still in some hidden valley where the grass is green.’”