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I hope you enjoyWorking Interest!
Sutton
ONE
Friday …
Nix changed out of her gym shoes for the Jimmy Choos and slid the messenger bag over her shoulder. She pushed down on the pitted chrome door handle of her grandfather’s ’67 International truck and threw her shoulder into the door with all her might. Then again. Once more. It yielded. The door protested; creaking and groaning loudly as it gave way.
The momentum of her efforts propelled her out of the cab and into the weeds poking through the gravel. She was just able to get her hands out in time to brace and avoid a face plant. The messenger bag landed several feet away, and her favorite heels scattered elsewhere. A quick glance confirmed the shoes were scuffed.
Rough stone bit into her palms and knees and toes. She grimaced and pushed herself upright to her knees, wincing as she dusted off her stinging palms. Blood seeped from where the skin had opened. Her knees were in a similar state.
Dammit to hell. Why didn’t she just get the doors fixed? Maybe because their history of sticking, even when the truck was Granddad’s, made it seem as if he was still living.
Sucking in a deep breath, she tucked her shirt back into the skirt and smoothed her flyaway hair, trying not to stain either with blood. Praying that the man she was here to meet had not witnessed her less-than-elegant arrival.
Why had she worn a skirt and her favorite pumps to wild, rural Oklahoma? And why had she driven the beloved ancient beast of a truck instead of her late model Mercedes coupe full of creature comforts?
You know why. To distract Jude Carpenter and get the lease signed.
Mortified and eyes closed, it took nothing to imagine what her hurling out of the truck might have looked like. A woman in her late twenties wearing a sleeveless silk blouse, pencil skirt, feet bare, on her hands and knees in a weed-infested gravel drive. Said driveway and farm were owned by a rumored alpha male, serial womanizer, and an ass of epic proportion.
Crunching gravel under heavy footsteps announced a human. More than likely male. A silhouette stretched over her, holding her shoes in one hand, giving Nix a reprieve from the mid-afternoon early summer sun. Shit. She stared at the ground and swallowed, searching for composure.
“That was quite the arrival. My laugh for the day. You fuckin’ sailed out of the cab. Didn’t quite nail the landing, though.”
His soft, deep chuckle rumbled through her, igniting a spark low in her belly. “Rarely is a woman on her hands and knees before we even talk.”
That last comment had her temper rising, dousing the desire.I have met the ass.
She groaned inwardly. Jude Carpenter. It had to be. Nix reminded herself she was here to negotiate the lease and gulped down her snide retort.
“Hurt yourself?” He sounded concerned.
With the sun at his back, the deep shadow from the ball cap concealed his expression. Nix glared up anyway, to the approximation of where his face was, and mumbled. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
She wasn’t about to give away what she was feeling or thinking and relaxed her shoulders. “I am.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“That’s because your mouth is running.” She sniped, then bit down on her bottom lip. Dammit.
He barked a laugh. “You’re a firecracker, I’ll give you that. Here.” He thrust an outstretched hand in her direction. His voice was gruff and full of the marbled dialect of long-time Oklahomans. “You can get on your merry way to wherever you’re headed.”
Electricity sparked in her skin as they made contact. His touch was gentle as he helped Nix to her feet and handed her the marred pumps.
“These are useless out here. Have a fancy afternoon date?”
Upright and closer, she still could not discern his features—other than his height. He towered over her barefoot five-foot-six.
“No date. A meeting,” she disclosed with confidence. “Here.”
He released her hand as if it burned. “I don’t think so.”
“Iknowso—” Tottering while slipping into the heels, almost crumbling to the ground again. Adding another four inches in height. “I have an appointment with Jude Carpenter.”
