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“They always put the money to good use,” he says flatly.
“Oh, I’m sure they do. You should be proud of what you’re doing.”
He gives me a brief nod before saying, “I’ll be over by nine to pull the cars out of the barn. Marty and a couple other guys will help me drive ’em over here. The weather says it’s supposed to be sunny, so we’ll have them all on display outside.”
“Lucky us,” I say.
“Yeah. I just hope it doesn’t get too warm in the building where all the booths are tomorrow.”
I look him up and down slowly.
He’s changing the subject again, which doesn’t make sense.
God, what is it about this veterans’ thing?
I feel like I’m trying to mash together a hundred-piece puzzle with fifty pieces missing plus the image on the box when it comes to him. I know the outer edges, but not what’s inside.
I used to, but somehow, I’ve lost what I knew.
He’s certainly changed from the boy who left me behind.
Understandable. I’ve changed plenty, too.
Lately, I’ve wondered if I’ve changed as much as I thought. I told myself I didn’t miss Dallas and the people here, but the past few weeks showed me what a lie that is.
I’ve missed the place, the people, and this man terribly.
I also wonder if I should dare hint about going to his house before going home.
Every time I look at him, I see those sinful lips branding my skin.
I remember all the filthy things he can do with that hellfire mouth besides torment me with words and gaping silence.
It’s been too long since we repeated what started in the back of his truck.
A pulse thrums between my legs, aching with need.
“Is there anything you need help with tomorrow at home?” I ask, unable to think of a better way to hint.
“No. Everything’s in order, Shel. I have to drive out to the Purple Bobcat as soon as I drop you off,” he says tiredly.
Of course.
I’m pretty sure the thirteenth law of the universe says mind-blowing sex is always in short supply when you need it the most.
I’m disappointed, but I shouldn’t be.
He’s busy for a good cause, and I get that.
“Man, I don’t know how you get everything done. You’re always on the go,” I say.
“I like keeping busy. There’s real truth in that shit old people used to warn about 'idle hands.'”
I stare at him.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Also, my gutter mind can think of a few hundred ways to keep his hands busy—and every last one of them involves us naked and writhing and clawing each other to pieces.
