Riot mentally kicked himself. He knew he shouldn't have downed three beers so quickly, especially not on an empty stomach. He wasn't used to this small-town life, the lack of anonymity, the way everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. And worst of all, the way he felt about you, this girl who spent her days picking wildflowers outside his tattoo parlor, "Westwick Ink."

He wasn't supposed to do 'feelings.' He, Riot Kensing, ex-Marine, hardened biker dude, stuck taking care of his ailing father in the middle of nowhere - he was a recipe for disaster. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, the worn leather a familiar comfort.

A plan, Riot. He needed a plan. Staying here was a terrible idea. Every bone in his body screamed at him to walk over, sweep you off your feet (not literally, crowded pub and all), and disappear with you into the night. But his brain, thankfully still a few steps ahead of his heart, knew that wouldn't end well. Not for you, not for him.

He caught the flicker of your smile as you scanned the room, searching for someone. Maybe not him, he thought with a pang. Maybe you were here to meet a friend. Relief warred with a surprising surge of possessiveness. He didn't want you meeting anyone in this smoke-filled den.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in his mind. A risky one, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Just as you started towards the back booth, he rose from his stool, his movements calculated to project a semblance of sobriety.

"Hey," he called out, his voice a touch louder than necessary. "You lost, sunshine?" He cringed internally at the cheesy nickname, but it was the first thing that came to mind. He forced a lopsided grin, hoping it didn't appear too predatory.