“I’m about a mile up the road,” she said, letting go of his hand and pointing in the opposite direction that he’d come.
“Not the most sensible walking shoes,” he said, eyeing her feet. The toes that peeked out of her shoes were bright red, and a thin band of silver wrapped around the second toe on her right foot. He looked back up to see her arched eyebrows come together for a second before she took a deep breath.
“Thanks for the observation,” she said, walking past him and heading for the passenger door.
Well, this was going to be fun.
* * *
Stupid jerk.
Not the most sensible walking shoes, Paige repeated in her head.
Well, no shit, Sherlock.
Paige sat in the cab of Brendan’s tow truck, trying to keep her temper in check. Her feet were killing her, and she really wanted to kick off her shoes. But she couldn’t do that in front of him because then he would know that her feet were killing her.
“I’m guessing the orange Jeep is yours?” Brendan asked as it came into view.
“Another outstanding observation,” she mumbled under her breath.
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, it’s mine,” she said, trying to hide her sarcasm.
“Well, at least the engine isn’t smoking anymore,” he said as he pulled in behind it and jumped out of the truck. Paige grabbed her keys from her purse and followed, closing the door behind her.
He stopped behind the back of her Jeep for a moment, studying the half a dozen stickers that covered her bumper and part of her back window.
* * *
He shook his head and laughed, walking to the front of the Jeep.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, catching up to his long stride and standing next to him.
“Keys?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She put them in his palm but didn’t let go.
“What’s so funny?” she repeated.
“Just that you’re clearly not from around here.” He smiled, closing his hand over hers.
Brendan had a southern accent, not nearly as thick as some of the other people’s in town, and a wide cocky smile that she really hated, but only because she kind of liked it. She also kind of liked the five o’clock shadow that covered his square jaw. She couldn’t see anything above his chiseled nose, as half of his face was covered by his sunglasses and the shadow from his grease-stained baseball cap, but she could tell his smile reached all the way up to his eyes.
He was most definitely physically fit, filling out his shirt and pants with wide biceps and thighs. His navy blue button-up shirt had short sleeves, showing off his tanned arms that were covered in tiny blond hairs.
God, he was attractive. But he was also pissing her off.
“I am so sick of everyone saying that,” she said, ripping her hand out of his. “Is it such a bad thing to not be from around here?”
“No,” he said, his mouth quirking. “It’s just very obvious that you’re not.”
“Would I fit in more if I had a bumper sticker that said MY OTHER CAR IS A TRACTOR or one that said IF YOU’RE NOT CONSERVATIVE YOU JUST AREN’T WORTH IT, or what about WHO NEEDS LITERACY WHEN YOU CAN SHOOT THINGS? What if I had a gun rack mounted on the back window or if I used buck piss as perfume to attract a husband? Would those things make me fit in?” she finished, folding her arms across her chest.
“No, I’d say you could start with not being so judgmental though,” he said with a sarcastic smirk.
“Excuse me?”
“Ma’am, you just called everyone around here gun-toting, illiterate rednecks who like to participate in bestiality. Insulting people really isn’t a way to fit in,” he said, shaking his head. “I would also refrain from spreading your liberal views to the masses, as politics are a bit of a hot-button topic around here. And if you want to attract a husband, you should stick with wearing doe urine, because that attracts only males. The buck urine attracts both males and females.” He stopped and looked her up and down with a slow smile. “But maybe you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, well, everyone in this town thinks that I’m an amoral, promiscuous pothead. And you,” she said, shoving her finger into his chest, “aren’t any better. People make snap judgments about me before I even open my mouth. And just so you know, I’m not even a liberal,” she screamed as she jabbed her finger into his chest a couple of times. She took a deep breath and stepped back, composing herself. “So maybe I would be nice if people would be just a little bit nice to me.”
“I’m quite capable of being nice to people who deserve it. Can I look at your car now, or would you like to yell at me some more?”
“Be my guest,” she said, glaring at him as she moved out of his way.
He unlocked the Jeep and popped the hood. As he moved to the front he pulled off his baseball cap and wiped the top of his head with his hand. Paige glimpsed his short, dirty-blond hair before he put the hat on backward. As he moved around in her engine his shirt pulled tight across his back and shoulders. He twisted off the cap to something and stuck it in his pocket. Then he walked back to his truck and grabbed a jug from a metal box on the side. He came back and poured the liquid into something in the engine and after a few seconds it gushed out of the bottom.
“Your radiator is cracked,” he said, grabbing the cap out of his pocket and screwing it back on. “I’m going to have to tow this back to the shop to replace it.”
“How much?”
“For everything? We’re looking at four maybe five hundred.”
“Just perfect,” she mumbled.
“Would you like a ride? Or were you planning on showing those shoes more of the countryside?”
“I’ll take the ride.”
* * *
Paige was quiet the whole time Brendan loaded her Jeep onto the truck. Her arms were folded under her perfect breasts and she stared at him with her full lips bunched in a scowl. Even pissed off she was stunning, and God, that mouth of hers. He really wanted to see it with an actual smile on it. He was pretty sure it would knock him on his ass.
Speaking of asses, seeing her smile probably wasn’t likely at the moment. True, he had purposefully egged her on, but he couldn’t resist going off on her when she’d let loose her colorful interpretations of the people from the area. A lot of them were true, but there was a difference between making fun of your own people and having an outsider make fun of them. But still, according to her, the people around here hadn’t exactly been nice to her.
Twenty minutes later, with Paige’s Jeep on the back of the tow truck, they were on their way to the shop. Brendan glanced over at her as he drove. She was looking out the window with her back to him. Her shoulders were stiff and she looked like she’d probably had enough stress before her car had decided to die on her.
Brendan looked back at the road and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry about what I said back there.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shift in her seat, and he could feel her eyes on him.
“Thank you. I should have kept my mouth shut, too. I just haven’t had the best day.”
“Why?” he asked, glancing over at her again.
Her body was angled toward him, but her arms were still folded across her chest like a shield. He couldn’t help glancing down and see that her dress was slowly riding up her thighs. She had nice thighs, soft but strong. They would be good for…well, a lot of things.
He quickly looked back at the road, thankful he was wearing sunglasses.
“I’ve been trying to get a job. Today I had an interview, except it wasn’t much of an interview.”
“What was it?” he asked.
“A setup.”
“A setup for what?”
“That is the question,” she said bitterly.
“Huh?” he asked, looking at her again.
“I’m assuming you know who Bethelda Grimshaw is?”
Brendan’s blood pressure had a ten
dency to rise at the mere mention of that name. Knowing that Bethelda had a part in Paige’s current mood had Brendan’s temper flaring instantly.
“What did she do?” he asked darkly.
Paige’s eyebrows raised a fraction at his tone. She stared at him for a second before she answered. “There was a job opening at the Mirabelle Information Center to take pictures for the brochures and the local businesses for their Web site. They filled the position last week, something that Mrs. Grimshaw failed to mention when she called this morning to confirm my interview.”
“She’s looking for her next story.”
“What?”
“Bethelda Grimshaw is Mirabelle’s resident gossip,” Brendan said harshly as he looked back to the road. “She got fired from the newspaper a couple of years ago because of the trash she wrote. Now she has a blog to spread her crap around.”
“And she wants to write about me? Why?”
“I can think of a few reasons.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice going up an octave or two.
“Your ability to fly off the handle. Did you give her something to write about?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he spared a glance at her.
“No,” she said, bunching her full lips together. “I saved my freak-out for you.”
“I deserved it. I wasn’t exactly nice to you,” Brendan said, shifting his hands down the steering wheel.
“You were a jerk.”
Brendan came to a stop sign, then turned completely in his seat to face Paige. Her eyebrows rose high over her sunglasses and she held her breath.
“I was, and I’m sorry,” he said, putting every ounce of sincerity into his words.
“It’s…I forgive you,” she said softly, and nodded her head.
Brendan turned back to the intersection and made a right. Paige was silent for a few moments, but he could feel her gaze on him as if she wanted to say something.
“What?”
“Why does buck urine attract males and females?”
Brendan couldn’t help smiling.
“Bucks like to fight each other,” he said, looking at her.
“Oh.” She nodded and leaned back in her seat staring out the front window.
“You thirsty?” Brendan asked as he grabbed one of the waters in the cup holder and held it out to her.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, grabbing it and downing half of the bottle.
“Who were the other interviews with?” Brendan asked, grabbing the other bottle for himself. He twisted the cap off and threw it into the cup holder.
“Landingham Printing and Design. Mrs. Landingham said I wouldn’t be a good fit. Which is completely false because the program they use is one that I’ve used before.”
Now he couldn’t help laughing.
“Uh, Paige, I can tell you right now why you didn’t get that job. Mrs. Landingham didn’t want you around Mr. Landingham.”
“What?” she said, sitting up in her seat again. “What did she think I was going to do, steal her husband? I don’t make plays on married men. Or men in their forties for that matter.”
“Did you wear something like what you’re wearing now to the interview?” he asked, looking at her and taking another eyeful of those long legs.
“I wore a black blazer with this. It’s just so hot outside that I took it off.”
“Maybe you should try wearing pants next time, and flats,” he said before he took a sip of water.
“What’s wrong with this dress?” she asked, looking down at herself. “It isn’t that short.”
“Sweetheart, with those legs, anything looks short.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart. And it isn’t my fault I’m tall.”
“No, it isn’t, but people think the way they think.”
“So Southern hospitality only goes so far when people think you’re a whore.”
“Hey, I didn’t say that. I was just saying that your legs are long without those shoes that you’re currently wearing. With them, you’re pretty damn intimidating.”
“Let’s stop talking about my legs.”
“Fine.” He shrugged, looking back to the road. “But it is a rather visually stimulating conversation.”
“Oh, no. You are not allowed to flirt with me.”
“Why not?”
“You were mean to me. I do not flirt with mean men.”
“I can be nice,” he said, turning to her and giving her a big smile.
“Stop it,” she said, raising her eyebrows above her glasses in warning. “I mean it.”
“So what about some of the other interviews? Who were they with?”
“Lindy’s Frame Shop, that art gallery over on the beach—”
“Avenue Ocean?”
“Yeah, that one. And I also went to Picture Perfect. They all said I wasn’t a good fit for one reason or another.”
“Look, I’m really not one to get involved in town gossip. I’ve been on the receiving end my fair share of times and it isn’t fun. But this is a small town, and everybody knows one another’s business. Since you’re new, you have no idea. Cynthia Bowers at Picture Perfect would’ve never hired you. Her husband has monogamy issues. The owner of Avenue Ocean, Mindy Trist, doesn’t like anyone that’s competition.”
“Competition?”
Mindy Trist was a man-eater. Brendan knew this to be a fact because Mindy had been trying to get into his bed for years. He wasn’t even remotely interested.
“You’re prettier than she is.”
Understatement of the year.
Paige was suddenly silent on her side of the truck.
“And as for Hurst and Marlene Lindy,” Brendan continued, “they, uh, tend to be a little more conservative.”
“Look,” she said, snapping out of her silence.
Brendan couldn’t help himself, her sudden burst of vehemence made him look at her again. If he kept this up he was going to drive into a ditch.
“I know I might appear to be some free-spirited hippie, but I’m really not. I’m moderate when it comes to politics,” she said, holding up one finger. “I eat meat like it’s nobody’s business.” Two fingers. “And I’ve never done drugs in my life.” Three fingers.
“You don’t have to convince me,” he said, shaking his head. “So I’m sensing a pattern here with all of these jobs. Are you a photographer?”
“Yes, but I do graphic design and I paint.”
“So a woman of many talents.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said, shaking her head.
“Oh, I’m sure you have a lot of talent. It’s probably proportional to the length of your legs.”
“What did I tell you about flirting?” she asked seriously, but betrayed herself when the corner of her mouth quirked up.
“Look, Paige, don’t let it get to you. Not everyone is all bad.”
“So I’ve just been fortunate enough to meet everyone who’s mean.”
“You’ve met me.”
“Yeah, well, the jury’s still out on you.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to prove myself.”
“I guess so,” she said, leaning back in her seat. Her arms now rested in her lap, her shield coming down a little.
“I have a question,” Brendan said, slowing down at another stop sign. “If you eat meat, why do you have such a problem with hunting?”
“It just seems a little barbaric. Hiding out in the woods to shoot Bambi and then mounting his head on a wall.”
“Let me give you two scenarios.”
“Okay.”
“In scenario one, we have Bessie the cow. Bessie was born in a stall, taken away from her mother shortly after birth where she was moved to a pasture for a couple of years, all the while being injected with hormones and then shoved into a semi-truck where she was shipped off to be slaughtered. And I don’t think that you even want me to get started on that process.
“In scenario two, we have Bambi. Bambi was born in the wildernes
s and wasn’t taken away from his mother. He then found a mate, had babies, and one day was killed. He never saw it coming. Not only is Bambi’s meat hormone free, but he also lived a happy life in the wild, with no fences.
“Now you tell me, which scenario sounds better: being raised to be slaughtered, or living free where you might or might not be killed.”
She was silent for a few moments before she sighed. “Fine, you win. The second sounds better.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Brendan said as he pulled into the parking lot of King’s Auto. “How are you getting home?” he asked as he put the truck into park.
“I called my dad after I called you. He’s here actually,” she said, pointing to a black Chevy Impala.
They both got out of the truck and headed toward the auto shop. Brendan held the door open for Paige, shoving his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. His grandfather and a man who Brendan recognized as Paige’s father stood up from their chairs as Brendan and Paige walked in.
Trevor Morrison was a tall man, maybe six feet four or six feet five. He had light reddish-brown wispy hair on his head and large glasses perched on his nose. And like his daughter, his face and arms were covered in freckles.
“Hi, Daddy,” Paige said, pushing her glasses up her nose and into her hair.
Brendan immediately noticed the change in her voice. Her cautious demeanor vanished and her shoulders relaxed. He’d caught a glimpse of this in the truck, but not to this extent.
“Mr. Morrison,” Brendan said, taking a step forward and sticking his hand out.
Trevor grabbed Brendan’s hand firmly. “Brendan,” he said, giving him a warm smile and nodding his head. Trevor let go of Brendan’s hand and turned to his daughter. “Paige, this is Oliver King,” he said, gesturing to Brendan’s grandfather, who was standing behind his desk. “Oliver, this is my daughter, Paige.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Oliver said, moving out from behind his desk and sticking out his hand.
Paige moved forward past Brendan, her arm brushing his as she passed.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she said, grabbing Oliver’s hand.
Undeniable (A Country Roads Novel) Page 32
