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I’m not known for sugar-coating hard shit. Emily, however, is a believer in the power of love, gifted with a heart of gold, and sees the best in everyone and everything, even when they’re no-good, cheating assholes.
“It wasn’t like that. It might’ve been his sister or something, I don’t know. What if it’s fate that we met? What if we’re meant to be?” Her plea for me to understand falls on deaf ears, and I wish I could get her to hear herself the way I hear her. Naïve, charming to a fault, and so full of goodness, it makes my teeth hurt.
We couldn’t be more different if we tried. For her every softness, I’m sharp; her sweetness, I’m bitter; her trusting nature, I’m cynical to the point of jaded. For as rough as I am, she’s baby’s butt smooth. I’m dirty and greasy, and she’s clean and prissy.
I raise one brow, glaring at her in disappointment. “Then you’d meet when you’re both single.”
She sighs grumpily, deflating. “Not like I’m going to see him again, anyway. I didn’t even get his name and the bartender wouldn’t give it to me. He said he didn’t know it, but I could tell . . . he knew.” She points at her eyes like she could read this bartender’s mind.
“You didn’t even get Dream Guy’s name and number, Em? Shit, he might as well be a figment of your imagination then. Maybe you did dream him up.”
“Nope, and we’re going to the resort bar for a drink tonight after you close up the shop.”
The laugh pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, sounding like a loud bark. “No fucking way am I going drinking at the resort.” Coming from my mouth, ‘resort’ sounds like ‘hell’ because to me, it basically is. Fancy and expensive, and not my couch with a cold beer.
“Come on, Rix.” It’s not begging, but more teasing encouragement because she knows she’s going to get her way. She always does, but I have to at least put up a fight to maintain appearances. And because maybe this will be the time I will get out of doing what she wants. Because the resort? Fuck that.
Before I can say no a little more clearly, something along the lines of ‘fuck no, never gonna happen,’ Emily’s phone rings.
“Oops, I need to take this. Back in a sec.” She’s digging her phone out of her tiny purse—what does she keep in a bag that small, anyway—as she hustles toward the breakroom, disappearing behind the door.
Reed meets my eyes. “If you’re getting drinks tonight, I’d be happy to drive so everyone stays safe. I’ll make sure no one bothers you.” He might as well try sticking a flag in my ass, claiming me as his. Just one big problem with that . . . I’m not.
“We’re not getting drinks, and even if we did, I don’t drink to be impaired, you know that.” I can put away my fair share of beer, having earned my alcohol tolerance the hard way . . . in the military against guys twice my height and width, with livers to match. But I’m responsible, always.
Reed shrugs. “Offer stands anytime, Rix.”
I smile, just a little one, because it’s hard to be mean to someone when they’re being that nice, but I also don’t want to lead Reed on. I know he’s onboard with our dads’ grand idea and is patiently waiting for me to come to my senses and marry him.
Which isn’t going to happen. Ever.
An old brown midsize truck pulls into the lot. “Incoming,” I warn Reed and Manuel. You never know what type of job or what type of person is going to pull up, and I love that moment before I find out. Maybe it’ll be an engine repair or something easy like an oil change? Maybe it’ll be a little old lady who needs help or an asshole I can overcharge with the ‘putting up with you’ service fee?
The old truck has seen better days and seems to be hauling . . . a goat in the back? Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen around here, but definitely not a common sighting, either. It comes to a quiet stop, so not brakes, and the engine sounds smooth, so not that either. The passenger door opens and then slams shut on the far side.
As the truck pulls away, I see him.
Cowboy.
Damned if he didn’t piss me off the other day when he brought Bessie in. I had almost taken his head off with that wrench, not just brandishing it, but a bare breath away from swinging it at him. I’m not usually that jumpy, but he’d scared the bejesus out of me by touching my shoulder. But he hadn’t been the least bit scared of me. No, I’d been holding that tool to his neck, his huge hand wrapped around my tiny wrist, and he’d almost smirked about it, his lips temptingly full in the middle of a day’s worth of scruffy beard growth. Like I’d surprised him, and more importantly, like he liked that.
