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“I’ll drive you,” he said, before he had time to think about it.
Her eyes widened in shock. “Uh, no, that’s okay,” she protested. “I can wait until Mom gets back to me and gives me a lift.”
But he saw the way that her gaze darted to the diner’s front door, as if straining for a glimpse of the departed ambulance. “It’s the middle of lunch rush and you’re really busy,” she added.
That settled it.
“Well, I’m going to the hospital, with or without you,” he growled. “So, stop arguing and ride with me, Summer. I’m parked out back.”
“Thanks,” she muttered without meeting his eyes. Her cheeks flushed under her golden tan.
Stiff-backed, she marched through the diner, heading for his kitchen without a backwards glance.
It was probably killing her to accept a favor from him. Despite his worry for Mrs. S, he couldn’t help smirking as he followed her.
“Young man, how’s Abigail doing?” Marlene demanded as soon as he entered the kitchen.
“Not good,” he said without slowing down. “She’s been rushed to Livingston Memorial.”
“Oh no!” Marlene dropped her spatula onto the flattop with a clatter. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Don’t know,” Brock said, heading for the short hallway that led to the back door. “I’ll know more when I give Summer a lift to the hospital. You think you can handle the rest of lunch service on your own?”
“I’ll manage,” Marlene said firmly. “Please let me know the moment you get any news about Abigail’s condition.”
“Will do,” Brock promised.
Ahead of him, Summer pushed open the diner’s back door and marched through, her back straight and her golden hair neatly braided in a long plait that hung between her shoulders.
Brock followed her out into the small parking lot. “It’s the black pickup over there,” he said, indicating his Tacoma and wishing it wasn’t so dusty and spattered with dead bugs.
He figured that nothing he owned would meet her high falutin’ standards, but he hated handing her ammunition.
“Thanks. I—I really appreciate this,” she said, stopping next to his truck.
He could tell how much it cost her to acknowledge the favor.
The next forty-five minutes were going to be fun. Just him and Ms. Fancy Pants Chef in his truck.
Wonder what we’re gonna talk about? Senior prom? Or how she’s gonna spiff up my diner?
Chapter Seven – Brock
He and Summer didn’t talk much during that long drive to the hospital.
Summer spent most of the time frowning down at her phone, furiously texting her family.
Brock couldn’t help noticing that her nails were short and neatly trimmed, free of polish. A couple of half-healed burns showed vividly pink against her tan, and there were pale scars from older injuries marring her fingers and backs of her hands.
His hands bore a similar collection of injuries, old and new. It was the inevitable consequence of working with sharp knives and hot metal surfaces all day.
Her thick braid, the color of sun-ripened hay, hung over one bare shoulder, and rested on the tantalizing curve of her breast.
Brock’s mouth went dry as he imagined cupping its soft weight in his hand.
His cock stirred, and he forced his eyes back to the road. Thanks to the North Gate of Yellowstone, located a half-hour drive south of Snowberry Springs, the highway through Paradise Valley was straight and well-paved.
On the downside, having such a good road also meant having to pass plenty of big, lumbering tour buses that were driving at exactly the speed limit.
