The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(49)

Thayden glances between us. “Well, fellas, it’s been lovely. But I’m headed home.”

“Hey—what am I paying you for? At least drive me to a hotel or to get some clean clothes and shoes.”

Thayden raises his eyebrows. “You really want to pay my hourly rate to take you shopping?”

“Never mind.”

“That’s what I thought,” Thayden says, then grins. “Plus, you’ve got a new friend! I’m sure Chevy here could be persuaded to take you. You might want to apologize for punching him first.”

I look over at Chevy, otherwise known as the deputy I inadvertently assaulted and the reason I’m currently wearing a police-issued anklet. Chevy winks.

“Rrrrright.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry for hitting you, Chevy. I meant to hit the other guy.”

He laughs. “You could have a future writing greeting cards. Best apology ever.”

“Well done,” Thayden says. “And good luck winning back your girl!” With that, he jogs off toward his car, leaving me with Chevy, whose eyes have narrowed considerably.

“Is your fancy lawyer talking about Lindy?”

I lean over to scratch my ankle. Dang if this thing isn’t going to drive me up a wall. “Uh.”

Chevy crosses his arms, and I stand back up to my full height so we’re eye-to-eye. “What’s that he said about you winning her back?”

I’m debating which answer is less likely to get me arrested again when Chevy’s arm moves toward me. I flinch, then giggle. You know, like a real man does when faced with danger. Chevy barks out a laugh, and I realize he’s holding out his hand for me to shake.

“What’s this for?” I ask, clasping his hand. He squeezes uncomfortably tight, so I do the same until we’re both gritting our teeth.

“We’re shaking on a gentleman’s agreement,” Chevy says.

“What’s the agreement?”

“We agree that if you hurt Lindy again, I will use everything in my power to make you suffer for as long as we both shall live.”

I drop his hand, shaking mine out. He does the same. “That sounds a little like a wedding vow, Officer Chevy.”

“And like a wedding vow, it’s for life. Now, come on.” Chevy starts off down the sidewalk at a good clip.

I follow more slowly, not sure of my alternative but not sure I like this option. “And where are we going?”

“My place,” he says.

“Your place,” I repeat. “Are you offering me a place to stay?”

Chevy turns, walking backward as he smiles at me. “You know what they say—keep your friends close and the people who may or may not be enemies closer. Either way, I think it’s best for Sheet Cake if I keep both eyes on you.”





Chapter Fifteen





Lindy





I agree to meet Pat for dinner entirely for selfish reasons: I haven’t eaten out in a long time. That’s the ONLY reason. Not because I’ve been thinking about the man nonstop for days now. I’m not here for the man; I’m here for the Tex-Mex. That’s my theme song, folks.

I’m so desperate to prove this to myself that I inhale the first basket of chips in a record two minutes. I can’t talk if my mouth’s full. That’s Manners 101. This single-minded focus on food also helps me ignore the almost-unignorable man across the table.

It helps. But only a little. Pat simply can’t be ignored, the same way you can’t miss the morning sun in a curtainless room. And he’s got mass appeal; it’s not just me. I’ve seen the way women keep eyeing him. Then they look at me, checking to see if I’ve got a ring on while I’m double-fisting chips.

Even as I’m licking salt off my fingers like some kind of heathen, a table of women are appraising Pat. They’re awfully bold. I shoot them my best hands-off, ladies look. Not because I plan to have my hands ON. It’s just rude to stare at a man when he’s with another woman. Have they no common sense? Or self-preservation?

I can feel Pat’s gaze searing into me. The heat of it is like the blast of hot air that hits you when you leave an air-conditioned building in summer. He clears his throat, and I fist my napkin in my hands, trying to draw strength from the cheap magenta cloth. I don’t know how long I can keep up this charade of pretending Pat isn’t there. Resisting is like opening the hatch in an airplane and trying not to get sucked out.

“More chips?” Pat asks, and my self-control snaps.

Fine! I’ll look at him. Yes, he’s still handsome. Yes, that’s my favorite smirky smile. We’ve acknowledged it. Now, let’s move on.

“You seem hungry,” he continues, that smile rising just a fraction more.

Oh, we are, the feral cat purrs. We arrrrrrrre.

I knew there was a reason I’m a dog person.

“I should save room for dinner,” I say, taking a sip of water and sliding as far back as I can in the booth.

I fiddle with the salt shaker, but even in its rounded silver top, I can’t escape Pat’s face. Ugh! The man is a plague. A plague of total hotness.

“How did you get here?” I ask. “I heard you don’t have a car, just an ankle monitor. And how’d you get my number, anyway?”