Tracking the Bear (Blue Ridge Bears Book 1)(3)

“Oh, come on, Lucy. Give me this vicarious thrill, won’t you? I want to have babies with that car! You could tell me what the back of it’s like!”

I scowled down at her, and carefully removed her hands from the front of my shirt. “I’m not climbing into bed with a stranger so you can imagine yourself in the back of his car. If you really want to get up-close and personal with the Firebird, go slash its tires.”

She looked affronted by the very idea. “I couldn’t hurt the poor thing like that Lucy. And speaking of cars that need a thorough inspection, when was the last time you took your car to the garage?”

“Two years ago, maybe? I don’t have to get it inspected again until the tags expire.”

She huffed. “Bring it by my place tomorrow. I’ll take a look at it.”

“I was really hoping to start work on college applications,” I hedged. If Millie or her father found something seriously wrong with my car it could set my college plans off by another year. I couldn’t stay in Fairchild for another year. I’d get suckered into staying by Mr. Lonesome in the front, or someone like him.

“You can fill them out in the waiting room at the garage,” She said, crossing her arms stubbornly over her chest. “That piece of shit is on its last leg, and if you let it go for too long, it won’t even be worth much as scrap. Let me take a look. I promise we’ll come to some sort of agreement if we find something.”

“Fine,” I grumbled.

“Order up!” The cook called, sliding a dinner plate laden with a medium-well steak and a loaded baked potato onto the ledge. Millie turned away, grabbing the plate. I didn’t watch her sashay over to Mr. Lonesome’s table.

Maybe Millie had been right. I should take my break. I’d been on my feet, constantly moving for four hours. My bad leg was sending spikes of agony up and into my back. I needed to sit. I grabbed my phone from the plastic tub beside the manager’s door and dragged myself over to the fridge. The brown bag lunch Aunt Carol had packed for me was hidden behind Brandy’s takeout. I relocated the Styrofoam container and grabbed my meal.

I bit my tongue to keep a whimper from escaping as I limped out to the restaurant proper. I wasn’t getting off early. I wasn’t going to let the stupid leg win. I’d sit down with the guy for a few minutes, just for an excuse to rest. I’d eat something, I’d take my pill and I’d tough it out until the end of my shift. I was a big girl. I could make it.

Chance looked surprised when I plopped down into the seat across from him. I pretended not to notice.

“So,” I began, pulling a chocolate pudding cup from the bag. “Millie would very much like to have a moment alone with your car.”

His sculpted mouth quirked into one of the most disarming smiles I’d ever seen. He looked like he should have modeled for GQ. What were this gorgeous man and his flashy car doing in Fairchild?

“It’s a hand-me-down from my dad. He bought it new.”

I realized belatedly that Aunt Carol hadn’t packed me a spoon. Chance handed me the one still tucked into the napkin. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as I took it. “Erm, thanks.”

He was peeking into the brown paper bag. “An orange, a pudding cup and a chicken wing. That’s not a very substantial meal.”

And it’s none of your business, jerk. I pulled the sack away from him with a scowl. “It’s fine. Now, why did you tell Millie that I turned you down? I don’t think that’s anyone else’s business.”

“I wanted an excuse to talk to you again,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stand of hair behind my ear. The motion was too familiar, and I jerked away from him, more head flooding my cheeks. Where did this jerk get off thinking he could just touch me like that?

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Force of habit.”

“Touching without permission. That’s a bad habit to have.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Why don’t I make it up to you?” He snatched by brown paper bag from my hands suddenly and hid it on his side of the booth. I gaped at him.

“Give that back!”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling with mischief. He pushed his plate across the table at me. “I think I’d like to trade.”

I stared down at the barely touched steak and the baked potato. The smell of sour cream and chives was making my stomach twist itself into desperate knots. It smelled a whole hell of a lot better than my cold chicken wing.

“Eat,” he instructed, reaching inside my bag to grab the orange. He dug his long fingers into the peel and began tearing it away from the fruit quickly. I just stared.

“I can’t…this is your meal.”

“And since I’m paying for it, I think I can decide what I do with it,” he replied. “Eat. You look dead on your feet.”

I hesitated. This was rude. Aunt Carol would have a fit if she found out I’d gone along with it. But he looked so sincere, and again, I could feel the strange pull toward him, the feeling of home that I hadn’t had since I was twelve, and mom and dad had still been around.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and I picked up his abandoned fork. He watched me eat, popping slices of my orange into his mouth with a smile. It was weird, that watching me eat his food was making Mr. Lonesome this happy. Maybe he had a fetish.