Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(23)

“Yes, but I was going to use that time to lay groundwork. I’m not the only one vying for the adviser position.”

“So you’re losing a day,” Rita interjected, really trying hard not to think about how being in Hurley another day seriously upped her chances of running into a certain honky-tonk owner she’d never expected to see again. The fluttering in her belly was definitely anxiety—not excitement. Or relief. Most definitely not. “We’ll figure out a way to make up for lost time.”

Aaron massaged the center of his forehead. “What happens when another part blows or an axle bends or—”

Belmont interrupted his brother with a look that said, Please, don’t try and talk about cars.

“Is there someone who can drive us to the closest used-car lot?” Aaron asked Stan. “By the time we reach New York we could very well have spent more repairing the Suburban than the damn thing is worth.”

“Not leaving it,” Belmont said.

Peggy stood, tugging down her jean skirt. “The Suburban was Mom’s, Aaron. Remember when we used to ride along with her to catering events, holding everything steady in the backseats?”

The reminder of those early days—before Miriam Clarkson became a household name—shut Aaron down for a second, before he recovered. “When she wrote that journal entry, I’m pretty sure this isn’t what she had in mind.”

“How do you know?” Rita asked, without really thinking. “None of us knows what she was thinking because we didn’t ask.” All eyes snapped to hers, all housing identical wariness. She’d broken the Clarkson rule by bringing up an uncomfortable subject, which could quite possibly lead to undesirable answers and feelings and yuck. Well, over the last couple days, she’d spoken more to her siblings than she had in a year, and every passing moment made her wonder what the aim of Miriam’s plan had really been. Maybe it didn’t have shit to do with diving into a fucking ocean. But she’d gone about as far as she could with her siblings for now—it was right there in their posture, how quickly they were about to close themselves off.

Stan shifted in his boots, orange juice carton tapping against his thigh. “They said they could have the correct part driven in by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. I’ll set to work on it right away.”

“Thank you,” Aaron enunciated before snatching up his duffel bag and storming back in the direction they’d come from. He was followed by Belmont and Peggy, who might as well have been escaping a tsunami—her. Rita. Weird how she’d gone her entire life without speaking up and now she couldn’t seem to keep her trap shut.

Rita stared out across the open expanse of land behind the garage, kind of wishing she smoked so she’d have an excuse to loiter. So many of her fellow kitchen employees had bonded over smoke breaks throughout the years, but she’d always abstained, afraid it would affect her sense of taste. Why am I thinking about this?

Probably because she had an entire day to kill now and Jasper Ellis was within walking distance. She’d lain awake far too long last night replaying their encounter. Over and over, until she’d finally gotten up in the dark and shaved her legs, since smooth legs against cool sheets always made her sleep better. No dice, though. I came here so you would fuck me. She cringed just thinking about those words leaving her mouth, about the way he’d expected them. How would she feel if a man said the same thing to her?

Answer: not even remotely good.

It went against the introvert handbook to apologize, but she needed to make amends for her part of last night. Make amends and bail. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Now that they were in Hurley for another day, she didn’t have a single excuse.

Weighed down by resolve, Rita turned from her view of the dusty, open land—and ran smack into Jasper.

“Hey.” His smile was strained at both ends, his eyes running over her face as if trying to capture something elusive. “You’re still here.”

It took Rita a few breaths to get her bearings. Because there he was. Solid and soap-smelling. Big. Capable. A little rough around the edges, hair shaggy around his ears. Hollywood stylists probably toiled for hours to achieve his tumbled-in-bedsheets look. A man who woke up, stretched his flexing biceps over his head, scrubbed a hand down his abs, and grinned before getting up to drink coffee naked in his kitchen. Because why spend one unnecessary moment dressed? And speaking of clothes, the warmth coming off his tucked-in flannel shirt rivaled the sun. She would bet anything that if she sniffed the material curving around his shoulder it would remind her of snuggling into pajamas fresh from the dryer.

“Uh…yeah. Still here.” Stop shuffling your feet like a high school student. “The wrong part arrived and my family is mere moments from a mutiny.”

“Wow.” His eyebrows lifted. “The wrong part, huh?”

“Yeah.” She tucked both hands in her back pockets. “This is starting to feel like Gilligan’s Island.”

Especially because her siblings were nowhere in sight—obviously having returned to the motel—leaving her to be captured by one of the natives.

Jasper seemed to deflate with relief, probably because she’d made a joke instead of sprinting out into the wild blue yonder. “Which character does that make you?”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Probably Gilligan, since he’s the one always screwing up.” She could no longer look at him. “I’m sorry about last n—”