Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(74)

“You were surprised,” Hank said on a sigh. “I surprised you.”

“Of course I was. You didn’t want me working at The Pony in the first place, you barely suffer through my presence, you can’t be bothered to answer any of my questions, and—”

“Wait, wait, wait. That is not true.” He lifted a hand and waved it in the air, batting away facts.

“That is so true.” I shivered, the blasting air now too cold, and reached forward to lower the AC fan. I also made sure to redirect several of the vents in his direction.

“I apologized for being a dismissive asshole. Last week, I apologized. The day before you quit.”

“And then, when I tried to talk to you to turn in my notice, to explain, you were right back to being a dismissive stinker.”

“That’s—I—” Hank sucked in a breath, and then snapped his mouth shut. He glowered out the windshield, his eyebrows pulled low.

“You?” I smirked at his grumpy demeanor.

Hank flipped on his blinker and veered off the road. “I couldn’t be with someone who works for me and I was grumpy about it. It’s unprofessional, and this—you—were the first time I chafed under my own rules.”

I flinched. “I—wha—excuse me?”

All remaining thoughts of Kevin and Mrs. Buckley fled my brain. Hank had my complete and full attention now.

Hank’s eyes sliced to mine, then back out the windshield. “Allow me to apologize for being rude on Friday before you turned in your notice. It . . .” He shook his head, his voice mellowing. “It blindsided me in the moment, but ultimately I was relieved.” He brought the truck to a stop.

“Relieved because you never wanted me to work there in the first place,” I supplied, too busy staring at his profile to take note of which tree-shaded, out-of-the-way spot he’d parked us.

“No.” He engaged the break but didn’t cut the engine. Facing me, Hank wore an expression I couldn’t read, not in a million years. But his tone was low and quiet. “Relieved because, if you don’t work for me, I’d be able to ask you out.”

I flinched again, my lips parting, a wave of hot, stunned awareness hitting me square in the chest.

The side of his mouth tugged a millimeter upward. “Did I surprise you again?”

Unable to speak, I nodded.

I needed a minute.

Or a whole damn day.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew he must’ve been attracted to me on some level; he’d made that abundantly clear on Sunday when he’d kissed me like the world was ending. We’d made out, it had been hot, I’d been completely mindless, and there was no denying his equal enthusiasm in the moment.

But then he’d said things after that didn’t make sense—about giving me whatever I wanted, doing whatever I wanted, being whatever I wanted—which later I’d chalked up to him being caught up in the moment.

Yet, for the last few days I tripped on the fact that, when I’d assumed we’d be hooking up for a simple quickie, he’d turned me down. He’d said no, not in the bar, but that he’d meet me later for anytime, anyplace. And that had made no damn sense.

What with getting the kids ready for school in less than two weeks, starting my real job next week, and preparing for the court-mandated visit with the Wicked Witch of the Buckley family today, I didn’t have a ton of time or mental energy to spare. I’d stopped wondering about Hank and his motives and the kiss. There were only so many hours in a day and I was tired of my circular thoughts.

Plus, this was Hank Weller. Hank Weller had been a hellraiser almost since birth. Hank Weller owned a strip club and loved to ruffle feathers. Hank Weller eschewed all conventions of polite society and took delight in flouting their rules. Hank Weller made hearts race and cheeks blush every time he walked in a room, but he didn’t date people . . . did he?

The subtle curve of his mouth grew into a scandalously adorable smirk, his smoldering eyes moving over me. “But we don’t have to date if you don’t have time for me. We can focus on you, and just the good stuff.”

I felt my body come alive under his gaze, heat rising and pressing against my skin. Faced with his lethal look and feeling like an overwhelmed, bashful teenager, I lowered my attention to the seat between us, unable to maintain eye contact without spontaneously combusting. I closed my eyes.

“Hank—”

“Charlotte.”

My heart rate went from sixty to approximately two thousand in zero-point-zero seconds. Goodness. The way he said my name, like it gave him both pleasure and pain, like the idea of me tortured him. How did he do that?

I heard the click of my belt being unfastened, the band of it losing tension against my chest. In the next moment, his hand plucked mine from my lap and my eyes flew open, locking with his. He’d scooched closer, enough to make his threading of our fingers together an easy movement. And the way he was looking at me made all the oxygen in the truck’s cab evaporate.

Had anyone ever looked at me like this? And now Hank Weller, of all people. It was a fantastical, long-buried desire come true. Am I dreaming?

I didn’t want to wake up.

“I know you have a lot on your plate,” he said, his voice hypnotic. “I heard you when you said you’re not in a place right now to think about a future with anyone. You’re short on time, and energy, and attention, I get it. But”—his tongue darted out to lick his lips, his other hand dropping to my knee—“I meant what I said on Sunday.”