Inside, the air was thick with smoke, spilled beer, and the low thrum of a radio nobody was really listening to. Harleys lined the gravel out front. A few hangarounds milled around the pool table. The regular crowd was already settling in for the night.

Opie Winston sat at a table by the wall, a bottle of beer sweating in his fist. He'd been quiet most of the evening, same as always.

The door banged open. A couple of the newer girls came in laughing. And behind them, one he hadn't seen before.

She wasn't looking at him.

That was the first thing. Most women who walked through that door did a quick scan—who's here, who matters, who to smile at. She didn't. She walked straight to the bar like she already knew the place, slid onto a stool, and let the girls order for her.

Then, like she felt it, she turned.

Their eyes met across the room. She smiled—not the come-here kind, not the sizing-you-up kind. Just a smile.

Opie smiled back before he knew he was doing it, then caught himself and looked down at his beer.