Page 11 of Micah

And a couple of salt of the earth friends, who are now my business partners.

Objectively?

Life’s been pretty damn good to me.

But there’s something about her, about Sloane, that I can’t shake.

Something that makes me watch her.

Something I can’t let go of just yet.

I lean back in my chair, crossing one boot over the other as she comes into focus on the monitor.

The late afternoon sun catches her hair, setting the red strands ablaze like burnished copper as they spill from a high ponytail and sway between her shoulder blades.

She's wearing jeans that hug her generous hips, work boots that have seen better days, and one of those fitted black Watering Hole T-shirts that somehow makes her look equal parts adorable and dangerous.

Six forty-eight.

Twelve minutes earlier than yesterday.

Eight earlier than Monday.

I don't consciously remember her schedule anymore.

I just know it.

That realization lands somewhere uncomfortable.

I should close the feed.

Go unpack another box.

Finish wiring the server room.

I should be doing literally anything else.

Instead?

I zoom in.

She disappears inside for less than a minute before backing back out, bending at the knees to lift two stacked liquor crates against her chest.

My jaw tightens.

I know exactly how much those weigh.

Forty-eight pounds each.

I looked up the distributor after watching her unload them by herself a couple months ago.

Nearly a hundred pounds.

On a woman who's barely five-foot-four.

“You stubborn little thing,” I mutter to the empty cabin.

She shifts the crates higher against her soft body, one boot slipping slightly on the asphalt before she steadies herself and marches toward the back entrance.