Fix Her Up (Hot & Hammered #1)(24)

Convinced he’d never make it to the pros without the proper diet, Travis started a paper route, just so he could buy the right groceries. His route was done on foot, since his parents couldn’t afford a bike, but he’d gotten up earlier than the other paper route kids and made it work. After school, he’d go to the store himself and walk the half mile home, arms wrapped around two paper bags. Travis could still feel his father sneering at him from the kitchen archway while he tested the temperature of his first steak.

Someday you’ll realize it was all a waste of time.

Swallowing the fist in his throat, Travis circled the kitchen table. Yeah. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t make his own meals. Apart from his lost month after being cut from his last team—when he’d gone on a takeout-and-booze bender—he’d been pretty handy in the kitchen. He didn’t necessarily need Georgie to fill his fridge with tasty goodness.

But it had been really nice opening the fridge and knowing someone cared. Travis never had that in his life. Sure, when he’d become friends with Stephen, the Castles invited him over for dinner at least twice a week. Those nights had been a godsend when his paper route money ran out, but in the later years, Vivian had started splitting duties with Dominic’s mother. Who’s going to feed the Ford boy tonight? Despite their best intentions, they’d inadvertently made him a charity case.

Nothing remained permanent. For those few nights when he’d had someone’s leftovers in his fridge to come home to, though . . . for once, something had seemed constant. Tangible.

Travis didn’t realize he’d moved into the bedroom until he started pulling on some sweatpants. He threw on a gray World Series champs shirt, leaving it untucked, and stuffed his feet back into his work boots. Trying to shake the inconvenient sense of dread, Travis plucked his tools and a legal pad from where he’d left them near the door and headed for the truck. It would take only ten minutes to measure Georgie’s fireplace and then he could get back to enjoying his night alone.

Travis turned the corner onto Georgie’s block and saw the small brick ranch-style house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The sun was setting, outlining it in a pink glow. He didn’t know how much money Georgie pulled down from her clown gigs, but the Castle influence had probably gotten her the house for a steal. It wasn’t the nicest house on the block, but it was the most colorful. Red and white and yellow flowers were planted along the walkway. Instead of a sprinkler head, she had a giant rotating frog plopped down in the center of her lawn. Flip-flops lay forgotten on the porch, lit up by the glow of the porch light. Homey. Bursting with character like the owner. Someday a bunch of kids would be playing tag in the yard.

It probably wouldn’t happen for another decade, though. At least, right?

A honk jolted Travis and he found himself idling in the middle of the street. Trying to figure out why he’d gone from starving to zero appetite, he pulled forward and let the neighbor pass and turn into his own driveway. But where he would have parallel parked at the curb in front of Georgie’s house, as he’d done at brunch, Travis was surprised to find another truck parked out front. One just like his.

Who did it belong to? A man?

Dale?

Travis’s pulse started kicking at the base of his neck, but he didn’t know why. Georgie had to have friends. Girls she’d gone to school with who still lived in town. The truck probably just belonged to one of them. Toolbox in hand, he passed behind the truck and spotted an I’D RATHER BE REELING IN A BASS bumper sticker and paused. Okay, probably not a girl.

Georgie didn’t have a boyfriend—she’d lamented that very fact to his face. Had she met someone since then? Shouldn’t a new guy have to go through some kind of vetting process? When Travis reached the door, he laughed when he realized he was bracing himself, shoulders squared. For what? Why the hell did he care if Georgie was in there hiding peas under mashed potatoes for someone else?

He blamed the humidity for the sweat popping up at his hairline.

Georgie answered the door . . . only she looked slightly different. As in not the same. As in the haphazard knot stuck through the back of a baseball cap was gone. Chocolate waves stopped just beyond her shoulders. Down. Her hair was down. And shorter, maybe? A big chunk of it had been cut right in front. Bangs. They were called bangs and they didn’t hide her green eyes, like the hat tended to do. Nope, those eyes were right there in the open, big and questioning.

There was something more, though. Her surroundings were soft, the glowing light draping her from head to toe. She stood barefoot with a mug of tea in her hand. With bangs. And frayed jeans shorts with the pockets sticking out beneath the hem. This was not the baggy-jeans-wearing brat or flustered Saturday morning cook with flour in her hair. She was a relaxed and—might as well face it—sexy woman standing in the doorframe of her own home.

“Um. Travis?” She waved a hand in front of his face. “Have you received any blows to the head today? Should I call a doctor?”

What is going on with you? He shook himself. “I’m here to look at the fireplace.”

She took a long sip of tea. “That’s not necessary.”

Damn. She was really pissed. “I forgot. I’m human. Whose truck is that?” He rolled his shoulder. “Is it Dale?”

Was it his imagination or did the blood just drain from her face? “No, Dale is . . . on vacation. It belongs to Pete. My fireplace guy.”