No Perfect Hero(11)
Shit!
He’s getting out of his old work-worn camper truck, parked right in front of the tack and feed store. It's the closest thing we have to a mall in Heart’s Edge, if only because the owner, Tandy Thatcher, let her daughter have a little addition with a craft supply store, while her son runs a gardening shop out back.
Bress hauls himself out of the truck like a snake. Dripping with his trademark mix of weariness and quiet authority, this mask of a calm, thoughtful man laid over the demon underneath. He rakes a hand back through ash-blond hair, sighing heavily like he's carrying some great weight, and then trudges inside the main barn-like shop.
There’s no one else around this early in the morning.
Perfect opportunity.
I park my truck on the curb, then steal a quick glance around.
There's no traffic and a barn wall between me and any line of sight from inside. Quickly, I rummage in the duffel bag I keep under the seat, until I find one of my GPS trackers.
It's magnetic, small, easy to hide inside a wheel well.
I slip around the far side of Bress’ truck, letting its bulk conceal me, and bend in to tuck the tracker just above the right rear wheel.
“Playing mechanic again?” a tart voice asks from behind me.
I almost leap out of my skin.
I'm rewarded with a smack of my head against the camper of Bress’ truck.
Hissing, swearing, I stand, rubbing at my throbbing temple and whirling to see who’s caught me – even though I already know.
Who the fuck else?
It’s irritating that I already know her voice so well, this mix of saucy sweetness with a soft burr at the edge, always on the verge of laughter. And Haley West looks like she’s laughing at me right now, leaning her elbow over the driver’s side door of the convertible, watching with glittery eyes as she eases it in to park.
“You okay, mister?” the kid asks.
“I'm dandy,” I answer, but fuck – fuck, did she see what I was doing? “What're you two doing here?” I demand, before she can ask what I’m doing here. “I thought you were heading out?”
“Oh? When did I ever say that?” Haley arches both brows with a prim little pursing of her lips, and I can see the resemblance between her and the kid. “Mr. Bitters was kind enough to point me to the craft supply store so I can stock up.”
I stare at her blankly. “Stock up?”
There’s something almost triumphant about her smile as she hauls herself out of the car.
She's such a lithe, spry young thing, she doesn’t even bother with the door. Just pulls herself up on her arms and vaults over the top of it to land lightly.
The kid tries to imitate her, clearly a bit of hero worship, but ends up just clambering over the top and tumbling down before clearing her throat and straightening her sundress primly. Almost like a cat daring anyone to notice it tumbled off a windowsill.
Haley’s more like the cat that got the cream, though, as she looks up at me with her green eyes blazing and her hands posted firmly on her hips.
“Turns out, I kinda like it here,” she says with a smile so sweet, it can only be poison.
Absinthe, like the color of her eyes. Intoxicating and venomous.
My fists tighten, but I'm quiet as a stone, staring her down.
“Think we'll stay a bit, neighbor. Chicago will be there when I’m good and ready. What kind of artist would I be if I didn’t follow my muse? And Heart’s Edge is so lovely.” Her smile takes on a razor's edge. “Besides. My little Tara’s never really been camping in the boonies, so it’s a great opportunity. But really, Warren. I appreciate all the hard work you did fixing my car and trying to run me out of town. I already feel like I’ve had the authentic small-town welcome.”
I don’t know what to say when it hits me like a brickbat to the face.
When I thought she was packing up this morning, she was actually unpacking.
Settling in halfway to damn well spite me.
I’m torn.
Torn between wanting to argue that I’m not some closed-minded mountain townie trying to run the fancy city girl off like it's a bad comedy flick...and wanting to drag her closer. Wanting to kiss that insufferable, satisfied smirk off her wicked little lips. Wanting to find out if she tastes like sugar and booze, just like the absinthe in her eyes.
Instead, I’m left frozen while she turns and walks into the shop with a little flip of her hair, her hand tangled in the little girl’s.
Fuck. Me.
I’ve got to talk to Flynn.
One way or another, I need to get this distracting, ornery, entirely maddening woman away from me ASAP.
3
Talk About Nothing (Haley)
It shouldn’t have been so satisfying to walk away from that asshole, leaving him flabbergasted and wordless.
But c’mon. He deserved it.
Especially after he answered the door this morning, all broad, tattoo-swirled chest, and thickly toned thighs, and a pair of boxers so small I wouldn’t even use them for a handkerchief.
I mean, wowza, if the crotch hadn’t been cupping his bulge so snug, something just might've peeked out to give me a free show. And one more problem I really don't need.
Honestly, he could’ve had a little decency.