by Kristy Marie
“I had an off day,” I glare at Maverick. “It happens.”
“Not to you.”
Groaning, I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. This conversation or intervention, whatever they want to call it, is grating on my last damn nerve. “He’s not moving back to Georgia.”
“Maybe we should ask Pops what he wants?”
Aspen’s question has me on my feet in a matter of seconds. “He wants to stay here with me.”
“Does he? Have you asked Pops if he misses home? If he misses Georgia?”
I shoot a glare at Maverick. We haven’t traded blows since we were teenagers. That’s liable to change if he keeps pushing the issue of Pops moving back to Georgia with him.
“No one misses Georgia, Mav. Stop trying to make this situation into something it’s not. Pops and I have a routine. He has friends here. You’re not dragging him back to Georgia and sticking him in another assisted living facility.”
“He has friends?”
“Yes. Why do you seem so shocked?”
Maverick does a sweep of my and Pops’s home with a critical eye. I know what he sees, a one-story, newly built cape cod style home, minimally furnished with foam taped to every sharp edge I could find. In essence, it looks more like I have a toddler than a grandpa in his late seventies. “Is the nurse you hired working out?”
I nod, not wanting to speak the words.
“And he’s doing his rehab?”
“Of course he is.”
“Who takes him?”
I roll my eyes.
“When you’re on the road, I mean. Away games and all that.” He waves his hand like he can’t bother to remember the correct terms, which is really the least of what I should let annoy me right now.
“Cooper?”
I was over this conversation when I saw their rental car in the driveway.
“Are you going to answer me or just stand there clenching your fists?” Maverick smiles. “Do you want to hit me, little brother?”
I’m glad I can serve as the source of his amusement today.
“We do his therapy on the road. We only have one nurse, and her contract stated no travel.”
An audible gasp goes through my living room.
“Cooper!” Aspen clutches her heart. “Please tell me you don’t mean you take him with you?”
Folding my arms across my chest, I level Aspen with a flat look. “That’s exactly what I mean. What else am I supposed to do?”
“Hire another nurse,” my brother muses. “The words assisted living come to mind.”
I snap. Fuck both of them. “He will never live in one of those places again. That’s how he fell and broke his hip in the first place. I won’t have it happen again.”
“He fell because he had a TIA. It wasn’t because someone at assisted living was negligent.” Maverick stands and steps closer to me. “Let me help you. You can’t do this alone. It’s not good for you—”
I open my mouth to argue that Maverick has no idea what’s good for me when Aspen jumps in. “It’s not good for Pops, Coop. Think of how much he’s being set back by missing physical therapy appointments while you’re attending away games. He needs stability. Maverick and Ainsley can give him that.”
“No.”
I don’t have to explain myself.
“Don’t be stubborn, Cooper.”
This time it’s me who steps closer, now eye to eye with my brother. “You don’t get to tell me what’s good for him. You weren’t there. You don’t know what we’ve been through.”
I don’t need to spell it out for Maverick. He might have wanted to stay home and help when Pops suffered a stroke, but Pops wouldn’t hear of it. He forbid Maverick from coming home from college and looking out for us. I know it crushed him, but looking after Pops was always my job, even if Pops thought he didn’t need the help.
Maverick holds my gaze before finally blowing out a breath. “Then at least allow him to stay with the nurse when you’re away. So she can get him to therapy appointments, and you can focus.”
It’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow anyone to take care of Pops without me present. But I know what stubborn looks like, and my brother won’t get the hell out of my house unless I concede to something. He and Aspen didn’t come all this way not to get what they wanted. They aren’t built to lose. But neither am I.
Thoughts of the nightmare intervention from three months ago play out in my head until my knuckles turn white against the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
His caregiver is going to leave…
I can feel it.
Reaching over, I dig through the glove box and find a warm energy drink and pop the top, taking a big gulp. It’s three in the morning and from her texts, it sounds like I have a long night of groveling ahead. I just need a little energy to—
Slamming on the brakes, I swerve, barely missing the inconsiderate prick stopped in the middle of the off-ramp.
Dammit!
I can’t do this. Not a-fucking-gain. The last thing I need right now is another accident in the wee hours of the morning. Maverick wouldn’t give me the chance to explain again. He’d just invoke his older brother prerogative and move Pops without my consent.
And that can’t happen.
All I need to do is offer this asshole a sincere apology and then be on my way.
McKinley
“Are you insane?”
The sudden and inconsiderate honk startles me back against the tailgate, where I can’t catch my footing (thanks, blinding toe pain) and fall to my knees.
“Get off the fucking road! This isn’t a parking lot.”
Aww. He’s so sweet. “This is a rest area, no?” I doubt he appreciates my sarcasm probably about as much as I appreciate being blinded by his fancy LED lights.
Sitting up, I mentally do a pain assessment.
Toe? Throbbing nicely, if not a lot more than earlier.
Knees? Yeah, those scuffed up beautifully.
Elbows? They’ll live. Actually, they need an award for saving my chin.
“Are you drunk?” The angered voice grows closer. As in, right behind me.
With sharp reflexes honed from many years of street-savvy survival, I grip the wrench from my shorts and whip it out like a sword. “Don’t come any closer,” I warn, steadying the metal weapon. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”
In the glow of his headlights, I swear the stranger’s mouth twitches.
“I’m not joking. I have no reservations about defending myself.”
The man in the dark suit puts his hands up, showing me his palms. “I believe you.”
His voice is rough, as if he’s been yelling at someone or raging at a rock concert. Given his suit, I’m going with a Wall Street yeller. “Can I help you get your truck off the road?”
My first reaction is no. Lu and I will be just fine. Better than fine, actually. Lu was moving at a good pace until Mr. Impatient nearly ran us over.
“You can stay in the cab and steer,” he adds, nodding to my hands. “With your wrench.”
He’s definitely smiling.
“That’s okay.” I wave him off with my wrench. “I got it handled.”
He studies my dirty hands wrapped around the handle of my metal ass-whooper before gazing behind me to where I assume he’s getting a nice look at my bare feet that match my overall look of… well, a mess.
“Clearly,” he muses. “My mistake.”
So, not like a hero, he turns, shoving his hands inside his pockets, and walks back to his car.
Okay then.
It’s not like I might have been convinced if he’d asked a few more times.
The annoying stranger settles into his seat, leaning back like he’s readying for a nap, and then has the audacity to give me a thumbs up.
This mother—I will not stoop to his level.
If that’s how it’s going to be, then fine. I’ve never been shy. Having some stranger watch as I struggle to push Lu to the sh
oulder will be nothing new.
Okay, so it’s new, but I never back down from a challenge.
In theory, having this dude sit in his car is probably safer than him hovering in my face, being all rude.
Setting my trusty wrench on the ground, I pull myself to a standing position and a deep, devil of a pain, shoots through my toe. I groan, which is terribly inconvenient when trying to appear badass.
“You can always go around me,” I yell, chancing another look at the stranger and noticing he’s no longer reclining. Instead, his fingers drum along the steering wheel, his face sporting a frown so deep it should have its own shadow.
“You could always let me help you.”
It’s really not that attractive that he yells out the window sarcastically. Honestly, I could do with more of a reserved stranger at the moment.
“No thanks.”
I’m no dumbass (Thank you, Netflix documentaries).
Turning back to Lu, I put my hands on the tailgate and shove—hard. And mother fluffer if the pain doesn’t send me back down to the pavement, and Sarcastic Stranger opens his door, thinking I need help.
“I just need to check something under the truck.” I give the undercarriage a brief glance. “So,” I drawl, buying a few seconds to catch my breath, “What are you doing on the road at three a.m.?”
I should have expected he would lose his cool.
“Are you serious right now?” I don’t take his yelling personally. Like me, he’s probably tired.
“I need just a breather. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your way in no time.”
The stranger’s hand slaps against his car door before raking it through his hair, leaving it gloriously mussed. “I’m on my way home.” Surprisingly, he sounds less angry than I expected. “My flight landed a little while ago.” He points behind him as proof there is an airport a few exits south.
“Business or pleasure?”
“God help me.” Kicking the car door wider, he heads my way with labored stomps.
Scrambling, I lunge for the wrench, but a heavy hand captures my upper arm and holds me still.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Says probably every serial killer. But call me the next victim because my dumb ass actually believes him.
And after tonight, I can live with that risk.
What I can’t live with is his grip on my arm.
Dropping his stare, I settle my gaze on the hand wrapped around my arm. “Excuse you.”
He doesn’t get the subtle hint, and rather than apologize, he reaches to the ground, grabbing —“Don’t touch my wrench!”
The potential killer ignores my demand, standing up straight and holding my gaze. “I expect to come away from this insanity with no broken bones,” he says all authoritatively.
I make no promises.
And after the long staredown, he finally shoves the wrench forward. “Take it.”
I snatch it without hesitation.
“Now, can you please get in the truck? I need you to steer.” His fingers are still wrapped around my arm when he helps me to my feet.
I feel myself nodding, whispering a thank you I’m not sure he hears since he turns and slips off his jacket, tossing it over Lu.
Heaven help me.
This stranger and his forearms… Why did he have to roll up his sleeves, revealing hills of muscle beneath inked skin? He has a tattoo that reads: My Power is Perfected in Weakness and heaven help me, my vagina tingles. His power? Perfected in weakness? Just sign me up. Gah, why do tattoos bring out my inner ho? It’s not like I love tatted men over non-tatted men, but forearms? That shit is better than a six-pack of abs. Call me crazy, but I can—
“What are you doing?” Those same brawny arms grab me by the shoulders and pull me upright.
Huh. Who knew his hot forearms would send me to my knees in a haze of drool?
“Are you going to steer?” Bad Attitude snaps. “Or do you still think I’m going to decapitate you with my travel razor?”
I snatch out of his hold. “That’s awfully descriptive,” I accuse. “Have you been thinking about doing—”
“Get in the truck!” No amusement is mixed with his words, but that’s probably because it’s started misting, and his fancy button-down is now getting wet along with, well, all of him. Which isn’t terrible, in my opinion.
“Right. Yes, I’m sorry.” I start for the driver’s door, forgetting about my broken toe and scuffed knees. “Ow.”
“You’re hurt.” His gaze goes to my foot, still hovering a few inches off the pavement.
“I’ll be fine.”
What’s that saying? Never be weak prey in front of the hunter?
Placing my foot back on the ground, I pointedly ignore the shooting pain and walk the remaining few feet and get in the truck. “I’m ready when you are, ho—homie.”
Holy hell, I really have lost it. I just about called the man, hottie. To his face!
Luckily though, he seems to have not heard me while he leans his shoulder against Lu and shoves with far less effort than I gave.
And God bless Lu and her ornery self, she moves as if she’s alive and not blown a gasket or some other insanely expensive part that likely will cost me a day’s pay.
I steer the old girl to the shoulder and put her in park.
“I’ll call you a tow.” I jump at his voice at my window. Gah, what is he? A damn ninja?
“Thanks.” I offer him a kind smile. “But you don’t have to do that. I can call them.”
He looks at the sky before sighing. “Can I give you a ride home then?”
Stubborn killer or a decent guy? The jury is still out, so I won’t take any chances. “That won’t be necessary. You’ve done enough already.”
This super sexy muscle in his throat twitches and sue me, I want to touch it. “At least let me take you to the ER then.” He tips his chin down. “And have someone look at your… foot.”
Ha! “I drive a 1955 pickup that breaks down more than it runs. Does it look like I can spare the money for the ER to bandage my toe and offer me a painkiller? No. Besides, you can’t do anything for a broken toe.” I wave off his concern. “I appreciate your help getting to the shoulder. Go home and get some rest. It looks like you could use it.”
I try. I try not to look at the saturated shirt clinging to his chest and hugging every inch of the muscles I failed to notice earlier. This man not only has hot forearms, but Stranger Hottie’s chest and abs are next-level muscles. These ripples take years and the assistance of a personal trainer and money. Too bad his personality is a little prickly.
“I insist.”
I gotta admit, he’s sweet in his own hateful way though.
“Oh, well, in that case, let me get my purse.”
It’s adorable when he nods, not picking up on my sarcasm. “I’m joking. I’ll be fine. Go home.”
For someone who was in such a hurry earlier, he sure is dawdling now.
But no bother, I’m used to his audience at this point. Snagging my phone off the console, I google the nearest tow truck company, and dial.
“Yeah,” the guy on the phone answers sleepily.
I turn and smile at the stranger still hovering at my door, damp in his expensive suit. I keep the phone on speaker so he can hear that I have help coming and he can scurry along now. “I need a tow. I’m parked off exit 227. On the shoulder. You can’t miss me. I’m in a red pickup—”
“A beat-up, red pickup,” Hottie Stranger adds unhelpfully.
I narrow my eyes. “That’s not nice.”
He shrugs, undeterred. “Just trying to give the man a more accurate description.”
An accurate description, my ass…
“Yeah, so it’ll be a while. I’m the only one working tonight.”
“Define a while.”
“Uh, Monday?”
I look at Hottie. “Did he just say Monday? As in two days from now?”
“Yep.”
“It’s real
ly tacky to be smug, especially when you know I’ve clearly had a shitty night.” Yeah, I’m talking to Wet Shirt with the bad attitude.
“My offer still stands.” He shrugs like he wants to get hit.
“You could call Uber,” the tow driver adds.
This is stupid. I’m totally going to die tonight.
“Or you could just grab a coffee and drag your ass out of bed and tow my truck!”
I deserved him hanging up. Really, I lost my cool at the end. I can admit that, albeit not gracefully. “Ahh!” I stomp my good foot on the floorboard and throw my head back against the seat. “Tonight can kiss my as—”
“Get out.” My door creaks and my eyes fly open with it.
“Pardon me?” I know he didn’t just demand I get out of my car.
“Get your wrench. I promise you can hit me if I do anything shady—which I won’t.” He does this little cross his heart thing that would be downright adorable if I wasn’t mad. “But please hurry. I, too, have had a day that can kiss my ass.”
I grin, and it’s totally stupid since I’m considering getting into a stranger’s car. But now that I look at Hot Forearms, like really look at him, I see the dark circles under his eyes and the hoarseness in his voice.
Dammit.
Why does he have to make me feel guilty, standing out here like a gentleman in the rain?
I look at the stranger, a million scenarios going through my head about how this night will end. “You promise you won’t kill me?”
With all the seriousness in the world, his gaze locks with mine. “I promise.”
Apparently, beautifully frightening eyes do it for me because I feel myself nod and roll up my window and step out. “I just need to grab my tree in the back.”
“Your tree?”
In his defense, he tried to hide the sudden fear—which I appreciated.
“Yeah, my tree.” I gaze at his car, still idling and blocking any oncoming traffic. “I think it’ll fit in your back seat.”
His eyes widen. But I don’t bother explaining. I just need this day to be done.
Pausing at the bed, already reaching for Psalms, a big body presses mine into the truck. “Let me.”
He gets no objections from me.
“Should I be the one who needs a wrench?” he teases, handing me the tree with a hint of a grin that does not make him look totally kissable. “Since I’m not the one covered in dirt, barefoot, sporting a broken toe with a half-dead palm tree in a coffee can.”
