Page 10 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Jack watched Clementine’s cinnamon eyes widen, her posture stiffen. She didn’t like that he’d used her real name. And it was real. As true as the way she’d trembled when he’d held her hand yesterday. Sharing your identity with a strange man on a strange road wasn’t smart, but the sparks between them had been undeniable. He had no doubt Clementine was her name. That didn’t explain the Samantha twist, or why she’d fled from him yesterday.

Why she was doing the same now.

His abysmal flirting was likely the cause.

She turned on her heel and speed walked out of the diner, the chiming bell echoing as she vanished. Every molecule in him wanted to bolt from his seat and trail after her.

He’d spent most of last night reliving how she’d worked on his car, hands adept, mind focused. The sexiest thing he’d ever seen. He’d wanted her greasy fingers smearing his dress shirt and skin. The memory of her shoulder’s crescent-moon scar and the sweat glistening on her long neck had thrown a stumble into his much-needed sleep.

Yeah, he wanted to follow her now, fill in her mysterious blanks, but what would he do? Fumble his words again? Demand to know why she’d occupied his usual seat, when he should have been confessing he’d thought about her all night?

Well done, Mr. Smooth.

He watched the door until an unfamiliar man with a swarthy complexion and thick beard walked in. Tattoos covered what he could see of his arms, a realistic knife and a skull the most discernable images. He was likely here for the festival, one of the thousands who descended upon Whichway. A reminder Jack had to up his rehearsing if he planned to win this year’s contest. He nodded and smiled at the tourist, who sneered in return. Rudeness also descended upon Whichway this time of year. At least the interaction hadn’t involved Jack repeating sentences or blabbing about seating.

He bit into his strawberry turnover, annoyed with himself for scaring off Clementine, but her departure was for the best: she was a festival judge, and he was a festival contestant.

Dating her wasn’t an option.

“You look like you’re arm wrestling with your mind.” Marco slid onto the stool beside his.

“Something like that.”

“Are you winning?”

“Far from it.” Not that it mattered. Flirting may come as natural to Jack as fixing cars, but he had larger problems to solve, ones that affected more than his stagnant love life.

Marco waved to Imelda, who held up her finger to let him know she’d be a minute. “Came by your office yesterday, but you weren’t around.”

“I was out.”

“Was it because of Wednesday? You avoiding the factory?”

It was a loaded question, but one he could manage. This conversation, although fraught with landmines, wouldn’t tie his tongue in knots. “Wednesday was tough, but the severance packages were more than generous.”

So generous, he’d been thanked profusely. He’d looked eight of David Industries’ long-time employees in the eyes on Wednesday and had let each one go. The task could have been passed to others, but part of success included owning your mistakes. It was one of Granddad’s priceless lessons, along with mind your manners, never give up, and Elvis Presley is the greatest showman who ever lived.

Unfortunately, none of Granddad’s wisdoms had helped Jack see the signs that one of his employees had been sabotaging him.

Marco flexed his wrist, working his old injury in a familiar pattern. “I’m hearing talk. People are freaking out about their jobs, worried more of them will be let go.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Because it’s always true. Everything’s under control.” All but the way he kept glancing at the exit, wondering where the mysterious Clementine had gone. “Times are changing, is all. More lens factories are opening up. We need to stay competitive. Costs need to be cut.”

Marco stared at him, his dark eyes as intent as their factory’s laser cutter. “You’re not telling me something.”

His best friend was astute.

As kids, they’d raced around town on their bikes, hollering into the wind. They’d shared their first beer together, both pretending it hadn’t made them gag. When Marco’s baseball scholarship and major league future had evaporated after his brutal car crash, Jack had kept him from drowning in puke and vodka. Marco knew each of Jack’s pet reptiles by name, could probably list the songs on his iPhone. He was well aware of the night Jack had spent in jail at fifteen—a disaster Jack would rather forget.

His best friend and charity manager knew it all, but Marco couldn’t know Gunther Doright had stolen company secrets, forcing Jack to fire employees so he’d have the funds to continue research and development. Marco gossiped worse than Jack’s kid sister. “Times are changing,” Jack said again. “It’s as simple as that.”

“So you’re telling me nothing’s going on?” Marco pushed. “You don’t need me to talk with the staff, do damage control?”

“No type of control needed.”