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Blake’s jaw was tight, his hands curled into angry fists at his sides. He looked like he wanted to chase Nash down and pound his face into the pavement. “So what can we do?”
“We call my manager and my publicist and wait for t
he fallout.”
“They’ve descended.”
Blake looked up from the gas pump to where the owner of the station, Arthur Jackson, was standing. Art was Blake’s father’s age, and had spent a good part of the past thirty years behind the counter of the gas station. No one else was there, so he’d stepped outside to visit with Blake while he filled up his truck.
He followed Art’s line of sight and spied another rental car with Birmingham plates rolling by. “More reporters,” he replied with distaste.
Blake had seen at least four other unfamiliar cars around town today. It was like a gang of midsize sedans had taken over Rosewood. The video hit the Internet the night before and everyone must have immediately booked their tickets and hightailed it to Alabama. It seemed that they all thought there was a story brewing here. He had no idea why. There wasn’t much going on. He and Ivy had made up. There shouldn’t be any more fighting.
If the hug they’d shared in the alley yesterday was any indication, they’d set all that aside. She’d surprised him at first, but it felt so good to have her pressed against him that he couldn’t help wrapping his arms around her. It had felt . . . right in a way that holding other women over the past few years had not. She fit perfectly, like she was meant to be there. His chest tightened at the mere thought.
But a hug was just a hug. It didn’t mean that in lieu of clashing they’d start kissing. No doubt, he was still attracted to Ivy. Now that he was no longer required to despise her, the idea didn’t bother him so much.
Grant seemed to think that was exactly what the reporters were after. That made him laugh out loud. They’d wasted their money if they thought anything illicit was going to happen on the street in Rosewood. The town had voted down the long-standing blue laws only last year, and that had been a scandalous headline. Buying beer on a Sunday! Did the paparazzi really think he and Ivy were going to make out on the street where they could photograph it?
He might have been considered nai¨ve when it came to all this, but he wasn’t stupid. Blake had learned his lesson quickly. From now on, he had to act as though someone was always watching, whether it was Vera Reynolds, ready to spread the news to every old busybody in town, or a reporter set on blasting it into cyberspace.
No, if he got his hands on Ivy’s soft curves again, there would be no witnesses.
“All this fund-raiser nonsense can’t end soon enough,” Art said with a frown. “I hate all these outsiders lurking around. I don’t trust the lot of them.”
“Look on the plus side, Art. All those rental cars need gas.”
Art shrugged. “I suppose. One of them came in earlier today and asked if the coffee was brewed with organic, non-GMO coffee beans. I don’t even know what the hell that means. It makes me want to jack up the prices on them.”
“Well, I’ve filled up my tank. Feel free to raise the prices now.”
“Nah,” Art said, pulling off his ball cap to run his hand over his thinning gray hair and then tugging it back on. “I don’t want to overcharge the residents just to be spiteful to those leeches. I’ll just keep my mouth shut and pray the next week goes by quickly.”
Blake smiled. “Are you going to the fair tomorrow night?”
“No, I’m here until closing every day this week. My son is supposed to be going though, and taking the grandkids.”
“Okay. If I don’t see Dan and the kids, tell them I said hey.”
A couple of teenagers went into the convenience store and Art moved to follow them inside. “Will do. I’d better see to them. You have a good one, Blake.”
Blake waved and closed his gas tank. He was about to hop into his truck and head to his house when he heard a woman’s voice shout his name from across the street.
He turned in the other direction to see Lydia waving at him from Ellen’s Diner. He choked down a frown and waved back, hoping that was all she wanted.
“Do you have a minute?” she called.
He did, but he wanted to say no. Unfortunately, his mama didn’t raise him that way. Blake slammed his door shut and crossed the street to where she was standing.
“You won’t believe this,” she said with an exasperated smile. “Whittaker’s is raffling off dinner for two at the fair. My brother, Thomas, was supposed to come by after school today to haul the raffle bin and folding table to the fairgrounds in his truck. He just texted me that he has detention. The organizers told me I have to drop this stuff off at the livestock pavilion before they lock up for the night.”
Blake eyed the folding table and brass rotating raffle bin. There was no way they would fit in her little convertible BMW. She obviously wanted him to haul it for her. And as a gentleman raised in the South, he had a duty to hold doors, pick up heavy things, kill bugs, and haul stuff in his truck.
“Do you need me to drive it over there for you?”
“Oh, would you? That would save my skin.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Blake made quick work of carrying the items across the street and throwing them in the back of his truck. The fairgrounds were a mile up the road. It wasn’t a hardship to do it, and if it were anyone else, he wouldn’t hesitate. With Lydia, there always seemed to be strings or complications.
