Page 12 of Micah

No hesitation.

No complaint.

No asking for help.

That's Sloane.

She'd rather struggle than inconvenience somebody else.

I've noticed.

Hell.

I've noticed entirely too much.

The way she tucks loose strands of hair behind her left ear when she's concentrating.

How she hums old country songs while wiping down the bar.

The fact that she remembers every regular's drink before they order it.

She even tips the pizza delivery kid thirty percent every single Friday even though he's only carrying the boxes fifteen feet from his car to the door.

I’ve seen this woman apologize when someone bumps into her.

I know when she's tired. She does this thing where she rubs the back of her neck.

And when she's worried? She bites the inside of her cheek.

But it’s her happiness that guts me. Every. Single. Time.

When she laughs—a real laugh, not the polite bartender smile she gives customers—her entire face changes.

And that joy? I know she feels it to her marrow, even if it’s only temporary.

Truth is, I shouldn't know any of that.

But I do.

Because one night a beer with Benji and Sawyer and their women turned into two.

Then it was wings and brews on Fridays.

Then it was dropping in for a cold one on Thursday nights when they have live bands.

And stopping by after supposed runs to town for the occasional burger and a Bud.

I don’t even like beer.

But what the hell is a guy supposed to do when the object of his obsession owns a bar?

I started checking cameras when I wasn't even in town just after our third meeting.

Christ.

I really need to get a grip.

But I’m still sitting here. Still watching.