Page 47 of Danger

She laughs. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Trust me… you don’t want that promise.”

Her smile lingers a second longer, then fades just a little.

“On a serious note,” she says, makin’ me question which part she thought was a joke. “You don’t have to step in like that. I know to expect that in places like this.”

I lean back, jaw tightening. “This town's already talkin’ about what we are. Last thing I need is for people to start thinkin’ I don’t take care of what’s mine.”

She studies me, then sighs. “Fine.”

A beat passes. She fiddles with the edge of a cocktail napkin.

“You know what’s funny?” she asks outta nowhere. “I’ve wanted a man to look my way for so long… and the first ones who really do are creeps with beer breath.”

“What do you mean men don’t look your way?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Trouble and I were surface level. Not even sure if he ever really saw me. And most guys”—she gestures vaguely toward the room—“they look past me like I’m not even here.”

Her eyes land across the bar. “Take Finn Banks. Leaves great tips in the jar. Good family. I cleaned the drink he spilled the other day, and he told Honey he was impressed with the bar’s‘self-cleaning feature.’ If I caught on fire, he’d probably just think someone turned on the fireplace.”

I blink. “You’re into Finn Banks?”

Why does the thought make me want to knock his teeth in?

She gives a helpless little smile. “He seems nice.” A shrug. “I’m just not good with men. Maybe I’m too nice. Too forgettable.”

Forgettable.

Yeah. Not a damn chance.

I drag a hand over my jaw, buying myself a second I don’t have. Because stepping up—being the man who shows her exactly how unforgettable she is—that’s not in the cards for me. I don’t get to be that man for her, for anyone.

But I can do this.

“Winnie,” I say, quieter now. “You’re doin’ me a favor, lettin’ Rylee think there’s somethin’ goin’ on between us. I know that puts a target on your back.”

She waves it off, but she’s listening.

“So, let me return it.”

Her brows pinch. “Return it how?”

If I can’t be the guy she ends up with—or even the one who gets to treat her right—I can at least make sure the next one doesn’t miss what’s right in front of him.

“I’ll teach you,” I say. “Everything you need to know to make any man fall at your feet.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Men aren’t complicated,” I tell her with a crooked half-smile. “Half the time men are just hopin’ a woman’ll look at them twice and laugh at their bad jokes.”

Her lips part a little.

“I’ll show you how easy it is,” I go on. “How to make ’em eat out the palm of your hand.” I force the next name out like itdoesn’t scrape on the way up. “Finn,” I add, because I apparently hate myself. “Or whoever else catches your eye.”

She smiles—soft, hopeful, like I just handed her something good.

And I ignore the tight, twisting feeling in my chest that says I just volunteered to build my own personal hell with a damn toolbox and a smile.