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After glancing down at my gas gauge, I make a quick turn into the only station in town. I still have a quarter of a tank, but might as well fill up while I’m here. Maybe grab a quick coffee to go.
I pull up next to an empty pump and hop out of my truck, going through the familiar motions. I slide my credit card into the reader and am busy selecting the fuel grade when a white blur slams into the open spot directly across from me. I glance up, wondering what the damn hurry is as the driver flies out of the beat-up Toyota SUV and rushes to the pump.
Shit.
My gaze locks on an all-too-familiar pair of hazel eyes, fringed by dark lashes, and my entire body tenses. The pump beeps at me to remove my card—beep, beep, beep—loud and insistent, but I’m frozen in place. Heart pounding double time, palms sweating, my mouth dry as dust.
Juliet squares up, flips her wavy hair over her shoulder, and blinks. Once, twice. A soft pink flush creeps up her neck all the way to her cheeks, and her full lips press into a tight line.
“King.”
Her voice is neutral, giving nothing away.
“Juliet.” I tip my hat at her, all cool, calm, and cordial, even as my gut churns.
She turns her attention to the task of pumping gas, and I try mightily not to hyperventilate.
I know running into her is a risk I take every time I leave the ranch, but it doesn’t make it any easier when it happens.
It’s like my worst fears colliding—peopling and her—all before eight a.m.
“You gonna take your card out, or are you gonna let it beep in there all morning?” The corner of her lip tips up, and I’m rocketed out of my trance.
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” I snatch the card out of the machine, and the word ERROR flickers on the screen in front of me. “Shit,” I mutter, jamming my card back in.
CARD READ ERROR.
“What the—” I fumble with the card, pulling it back out.
Backward. I put the damn thing in backward.
Trying again, I shove the card back in and wait for the go-ahead to enter my zip code. I try to focus on the pump and not the woman on the other side, a mere foot away from me.
Not on the way that black T-shirt clings to her curves, not on the smattering of freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose, not on the delicate slope of her neck, the dip of her collarbone, where her skin’s so soft and tender. Like a ripe, juicy peach at peak harvest you’re dying to sink your teeth into.
The card reader beeps, and this time I manage to pull the plastic out successfully and punch in the right numbers. I lift the gas nozzle, tap the “Regular” fuel button, and start pumping, averting my eyes from Juliet. Instead, I focus on the convenience store, drumming my fingers on the yellow rubber handle to pass the time.
Which crawls, by the way. This must be the slowest gas pump on the whole fucking planet, swear to goodness. Juliet finishes up—the scrape of metal on metal alerts me to the fact—and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief as she opens the door of her vehicle.
But she doesn’t climb in and drive off into the sunrise.
Nope. Instead, she grabs her purse and sashays past me into the building, hips swaying side to side.
Damn. I really wanted a coffee too.
At this rate she’ll probably be done in there before I finish pumping.
Thump. The lever pops up, signaling the tank is full. I replace the nozzle and shut the gas tank door.
Should I go in there? Stall here until she comes out? Or forget the whole coffee plan altogether?
Taking a deep breath, I weigh my options before deciding to just go for it. I’m a grown-ass man, and I want a coffee, dammit. It’ll only take a few seconds—what’s the worst that could happen? So I see her again, no biggie.
After locking my truck, I head across the parking lot, shoving a hand in my pocket. All nonchalant.
I push through the door into the small space and shoot a quick wave at Barty, the twentysomething-year-old kid standing at the register.
“Morning, King.”
