Waverly high-tails away from me across the bar, her golden ponytail swishing behind her. She’s in a sage green dress tonight, the fabric dancing around her thighs, while leather boots cling to her calves.
My nostrils flare as I watch her leave, sucking in a sharp breath. Why is it always so hard to watch that young woman walk away from me? Why does it feel so wrong?
She’s too young for you, asshole, a voice mutters in my head. It’s my voice, because I’ve been telling myself the same thing for months. It’s been one hell of a long, frustrating summer.
But Waverly is too young, too sweet, too shy, too everything for a cranky old bastard like me to be panting after her. Better to not go there, to not let my thoughts stray in that direction, because if I get caught up in thoughts of Waverly
