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But that’s the problem with the wealthy types. As long as money talks, they can do whatever the hell they want.
“Huey,” I beg, still clinging to the side of his truck, “please don’t do this.”
He rolls the window up, and I snatch my fingers back before they’re caught.
“I really am sorry,” he says from behind the glass before taking off.
Planting my heels on the street, I shake my fist at him. “I hope that check he wrote you bounces!”
But I know damn well I don’t mean that. It’s not Huey’s fault Garrett’s a good-for-nothing jerk, or that I clearly have terrible taste in men.
Head down, I stomp back toward the sidewalk.
“Ah!” Stars explode behind my eyes when I collide into the man who’s stepped out in front of me.
With one hand on my arm steadying me, and the other on his ribs, he groans, “For fuck’s sake, woman, watch where you’re going.”
I blink up at him. Not many men in this town would speak to a lady that way, but the tailored suit, perfectly trimmed hair and beard, paired with a shiny watch glinting in the afternoon sun, scream out-of-towner.
“You kiss your momma with that mouth?” I ask, exasperated. “And for the record, you stepped out in front of me.”
A pair of cold brown eyes gives me a once over, and I grow self-conscious, hoping he can’t see the tears still clinging to my lashes. The thick concealer I apply every morning is the type that doesn’t budge without force, but even knowing that, my mark burns like a neon sign pointed directly at my face.
The hand still on my arm is as big as the rest of his beautifully proportioned body. His shoulders are broad, covered by a suit that fits his well-muscled form perfectly, and?—
Oh my god. I’m straight up ogling this guy.
I skirt around him, but I don’t get far before he stops me with a cocky, “Forgetting something?”
Gradually, I spin to find my backpack dangling from his fingers.
Dammit, I must have dropped it when I took off after Huey.
“Thanks,” I mutter after doubling back.
“Are you all right?”
Well, there goes any hope I had that he missed that whole debacle.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my stomach twists with anxiety at the folks staring at me across the street.
I’m guaranteed to be the talk of the town tomorrow.
When I grab for my bag, he refuses to give it to me, holding it out of reach.
“Are you in need of assistance?” he asks.
My hands find my hips. “No, I’m not. And even if I were, some fancy pants fella like you would be my last resort.”
He’s genuinely perplexed when he remarks, “Are you always so expressive?”
“Are you always so… so…” I wave my hand at him, struggling to find the right word before blurting, “rigid?”
I tell myself I’m not sorry for the obvious offense my judgment warrants, but I’m being a jerk to a complete stranger over a situation he has nothing to do with, and I can already hear Dad saying, ‘Now, Mol, that’s not the Hart way.’
“Okay, look, I shouldn’t have snapped at you, but I’ve had a pretty rough week, making you the pincushion I’m stabbing my frustration into.” I make little jabbing motions at his arm for emphasis.
“You’re hardly intimidating when you’re wearing these.” He tugs one of the straps to my overalls.
