by Dylann Crush
His eyes flew open, registering a scowl. Damn, she looked so much prettier when she smiled. “What?” He gathered his shredded composure. “I was just giving you your first lesson.”
“No. Let me give you a lesson.” Her finger poked him in the shoulder.
“Ow. Hey, be careful, my cracked rib’s on that side.” He held his hand over his injury to protect himself.
“No kissing. No physical contact. You got it?”
He pulled himself to his full height. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze. He had to hand it to her—the woman didn’t back down. “I’ve got it. But just for the record, when you initiate contact with me, I just want you to know that I’m all for it.”
“In your dreams.” As the words flew out of her mouth, her hands came up like she wanted to stop them.
He let out a laugh. Damn, that hurt. Doc Shubert should have told him not to laugh along with the other ridiculous instructions he’d given him. “Sounds like I need to start dreaming big.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” She stared up at him.
“Not if I can help it.” That was the honest truth. Life was cruel enough without forcing himself to take things seriously. “Laughing keeps you young. You should try it more often.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us have something to laugh about all the time.” Her tone shifted from annoyance to just shy of despair. He’d never been the touchy-feely type. He preferred to keep things light, let any worries roll right off his shoulders. The closest he came to losing his light outlook on life was when his dad had broken his hip last year. The whole family had rallied, and his dad had pulled through.
He bit back a smart-ass response and lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sometimes you have to look for something to make you smile.”
She opened her mouth like she wanted to fire something back at him. But then she let it drift closed again. “I guess I need to start looking.”
The moment dragged on, suspended between them like something heavy and heartfelt that neither of them knew how to handle.
He broke the silence first. “Right. And you can start looking by gazing deep into the eyes of Mr. SoCal himself. Did y’all make plans to meet up later?”
“Um, yeah.” She startled and quickly pulled herself back together. “I was going to meet him back up by the bar, but I think I should cancel.”
“Why would you cancel? This is our shot to get some information. You’ve got his number?”
“He gave it to me yesterday. Why?”
“So do us both a favor. Text him that you want to meet up a little later. Go home. Change into something more along the lines of that dress you had on last night. Primp. Do your hair. Put on a little lipstick. Then offer to take him on that drive around town.”
She looked doubtful. “In my minivan?”
“Aw, hell. That’s right.” He’d forgotten Dixie was the only single female in town to drive her mom’s hand-me-down grocery getter. He scrubbed a hand over his chin, thinking. “You know how to ride a bike?”
“You want us to toodle around town on a bicycle built for two?”
“What? No, not a bike, a motorcycle. Jinx has that sweet ride I bet she’d loan us.”
Dixie rolled her eyes. “No. No motorcycle.”
“All right. I’ll come up with something. You just send the text and get yourself all dolled up. I’ll be by to pick you up at, say, two o’clock, okay?”
“You really think he’s up to no good?”
He met her gaze. Those green eyes studied him, like she could see deep down inside to places he hadn’t ever examined himself. “I do. I really, really do.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.” She wrapped her arms around her middle, obviously not the least bit excited about an afternoon of primping.
“Good. This is going to go well, I promise.” Presley turned to walk away then immediately spun back around to face her. “Look at us working as a team. I told you we’d make great partners.”
She rolled her eyes again and shook her head. “I believe the jury’s still out on that.”
“You wait and see, Fireball. We’ll go down in Rambling Rose history…the dynamic duo who saved the Rose.”
Dixie finally let a smile slip. It wasn’t the huge grin he’d hoped for, but he’d take it. He’d boiled down his new plan to attacking one insurmountable task at a time. First he’d find her a vehicle that didn’t make her look like a soccer mom. Then he’d worry about changing her attitude. By the looks of it, he’d have his work cut out for him.
Chapter Eight
By the time she left Presley and checked the items on her list, Dixie only had about forty-five minutes before he was due to show up on her doorstep. Why hadn’t she shot down that idea as soon as it left his mouth? She didn’t need Holiday’s most notorious bachelor knocking on her door, not with the scandals Gram had been causing lately. Plus she didn’t exactly trust herself around the man.
She dug through the makeup bag she’d borrowed from her sister and picked out a tube of lipstick. Presley wanted her to look the part, so she might as well go all out. She lined her lips then filled them in with a light shade of pink. But what to wear? That sundress she wore last night was the only thing she had that even hinted at sexy. As she dug through her closet, searching for something appropriate or something appropriately inappropriate, Gram knocked on the doorframe.
“What’s going on in here? I can hear you from the front room. Sounds like a twister is ripping through your closet.”
Dixie poked her head out of the closet long enough to meet Gram’s gaze. “I can’t find anything to wear.”
Gram crossed the room to the bed and picked up a T-shirt with a mock turtleneck. “You’d roast in something like this. It’s about ninety degrees out there today.”
“I know.” Dixie let out a groan. “What about this one?” She held out a drapey shift.
“That looks like a housecoat.” Gram chuckled. “And an ugly one at that. What’s the big occasion? I thought you had to wear your Rose shirts to work.”
“I usually do. But I’m working on a”—Dixie cleared the giant frog from her throat—“a special project.”
Gram clasped her hands together. “Oh, I love special projects. Is it a secret?” She arched a brow. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Dixie wanted to laugh at the delighted look on Gram’s face. “You’re horrible at keeping secrets. That’s why you keep getting in so much trouble with Mom and Dad.”
“Well, some secrets are just too good to keep all to myself. You ever feel that way, sugar?” Gram winked.
No, she never did feel that way. Every time Dixie tried to keep a secret, guilt pressed down on her like a thousand-pound weight. Folks had learned long ago not to saddle her with their deep, dark secrets.
“It’s not a secret, Gram. I’m helping out at the Rose tonight, but I’m not waiting tables, so I wanted to wear something more fun.” She turned to her grandmother with a short-sleeve calico blouse in her hands. “What about this?”
Gram shook her head. “Looks like something you’d see in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. I’ll be back in a sec.”
That’s what she got for asking Gram for an opinion. The woman had more clothes than Whitey’s Western Wear down on Main Street. Her three-bedroom house had been shrunk down to two—she’d converted the smaller bedroom into her closet. Dixie shuffled hangers around, passing over a pale-pink dress she only wore to church and a mint-green skirt with tiny yellow flowers printed on it.
“Try this.” Gram tossed a garment at Dixie before she dropped onto the bed. “I bought it a few years ago up in Dallas and never got around to wearing it.”
Dixie held the hot-pink tank up in front of her. Fringe draped down the front. Not exactly the kind of garment a typical grandmother might wear. It was kind of cute
, but way more revealing than anything Dixie had in her closet.
“Go ahead, try it on,” Gram urged.
Before she could make an excuse, the doorbell rang. Dang, Presley was early. Gram sprang off the bed like someone half her age. “I’ll get it.”
“No, I’ve got it.” Dixie yanked the tank over her head and thrust her arms through the armholes. The last thing she needed was for Presley to fill Gram in on their plans.
By the time Dixie made it to the landing, Gram had already pulled the door open. The sound of Presley’s warm laughter hit her about halfway down the stairs. She rounded the corner into the front hall to see him clasping Gram’s hand in both of his. Dixie stood in stunned silence while her grandmother invited him into the living room.
They didn’t have time for small talk. Dixie stumbled down the rest of the steps. Presley looked out of place on Gram’s crushed-velvet settee, though he appeared to feel right at home. One arm draped across the back of the couch, and his legs stretched out in front of him. Gram sat on the ottoman across from him, ankles crossed, the perfect picture of Texas hospitality. “Can I offer you some sweet tea, Mr. Walker?”
“That would be delicious, ma’am.” Presley had removed his hat and set it on the cushion next to him.
“You’re early.” Dixie stated the obvious, drawing his attention to where she leaned against the doorway.
He stood and gestured to the chair next to him. “Good. That means we have time for a glass of sweet tea.”
Gram swatted at Dixie’s hip as she passed on her way into the kitchen. “Be nice,” she muttered under her breath.
Dixie rolled her eyes heavenward and slowly crossed to the chair opposite Presley.
“You look real nice.” Presley gestured to her shirt. “Pink’s a good color on you.”
All too aware of the skimpy top, she wrapped her arms around her middle. The compliment made her warm in places she had no business feeling anything. “Should we figure out a plan?”
“Sure.”
They sat at the same time. He dwarfed Gram’s delicate antique sofa. In fact, his presence in the front room made the whole house seem smaller. Dixie swallowed, forcing the bubbling apprehension back down into her gut. The only man she remembered seeing in Gram’s formal living room besides her own father was Gramps, and he’d been gone for more than twenty years.
Presley cleared his throat. “So I’m thinking it’ll go down something like this. You’ll take SoCal on a friendly tour around Holiday and maybe stop when you get to the edge of the Garcia property.”
“There’s nothing out there. Why would I stop?”
“Pretend something feels weird with the car.” Presley leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Then when you get out—”
“So you want me to lie?” Typical. Telling a string of untruths sure didn’t keep him up at night.
He let out an unsure laugh like he couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. “It’s not a lie, just a reason to stop the car.”
“I don’t lie.” Dixie tightened her arms under her chest, daring him to call her out on her statement.
“There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you’ve never told a lie in your whole life, Fireball.”
“Who, Dixie?” Gram bustled into the room, a tray full of tall glasses of sweet tea and a plate stacked with cookies in her hands. “Would you care for a cookie? Fresh baked this morning.”
Dixie’s mouth opened wide. Fresh baked? She’d been with Gram when she snagged the plastic box of chocolate-chip cookies from the grocery store shelf. Gram winked at her as she set the tray down on the ottoman.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Presley reached over and took two cookies and the tea Gram handed him. “I was just explaining to Dixie that there’s a difference between pretending and telling a flat-out lie.”
Gram nodded. “Isn’t that the truth? Why, every time Charity makes her Sunday-night pot roast, I pretend it’s the best thing I’ve had all week.”
“Gram! You haven’t been to Sunday-night dinner in weeks.” How could Gram justify anything Presley Walker said, much less back him up on the benefits of lying?
“That’s right. When your mama learns how to properly cook a hunk of meat, I’ll be back. Why, she ought to try my new pressure cooker thingamajig I picked up last time I went into Austin.”
Dixie closed her eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath through her nose before she spoke. “She can’t try your new pressure cooker because you blew it up and almost caught your kitchen on fire.”
Gram shrugged off the accusation. “I must have got a bad one. Even if she just threw it in a slow cooker, it would be more tender than that piece of rubber she tries to pass off as a meal.”
“I don’t think we need to have this conversation right now.” Dixie bit into a cookie. Her taste buds celebrated the ooey, chocolaty goodness. Gram must have gone to the trouble of nuking the cookies in the microwave to make Presley think she’d baked them herself. Presley wouldn’t need to convince Gram about the benefits of little white lies.
“I’m just trying to get to know your friends.” Gram reached over to pat Dixie’s knee.
Presley’s grin said it all. He was enjoying this. The fact he took any kind of joy in her discomfort made her even madder.
Dixie tried to talk around a huge bite of cookie. “Prefee ith not my fend.”
“What’s that?” Presley smirked right before he shoved cookie number two into his mouth.
She forced the cookie down her throat and tried again. “I said, ‘Presley is not my friend.’” Dixie looked from him to her Gram. “We’re just—”
“Partners.” Presley licked his lips. “You’ve got a little bit of chocolate on your mouth there.” He reached over to swipe his thumb over her bottom lip.
She recoiled like he was about to burn her then violently rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth.
“Can we go? I’d like to get this over with.” Dixie placed her glass back on the tray. She stood and adjusted the tank top.
Presley took his time getting to his feet. “Thank you for the refreshments, Mrs. Holbein. It was a pleasure visiting with you.”
“You come back and see me anytime, young man.” Gram led the way to the door.
Dixie grabbed her purse off the table in the front hall. “Have a good night, Gram. Don’t forget, Liza and Bea are taking you out to dinner tonight.”
“That’s right. It’s their turn to babysit me, right?” Gram gave her a half hug. “You two have fun tonight.”
“They’re not babysitting you. Liza wants to spend some time with you, and I know you love having Bea around.” Dixie hugged back, wrapping her arms around Gram’s frail shoulders.
“You’re doing it right now, Dixie Mae.” Gram pulled back, her green eyes twinkling.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending, hon. Your gentleman friend is right—sometimes it’s easier to pretend than flat-out lie to someone’s face.”
Dixie’s heart slammed into the walls of her chest, and she opened her mouth to protest.
Gram shook her head. “I know you have my best interests at heart. Now go on and have fun tonight.”
Dixie leaned in to give Gram another hug. Here she thought she was the one who had to make the big sacrifice by moving in with the older woman. But, actually, Gram was the one who was tolerating her. What would it be like to live your whole life on your own terms and then be forced to have someone move in to keep an eye on you? Gram never would have agreed if she hadn’t been a little scared of the small series of strokes she’d had. Dixie would have to circle back to that thought later. Right now she needed to focus.
Presley had put his hat back on his head and stood on the porch waiting for her. “Ready to go?”
Dixie turned back to tell Gram goodnight. Before she could speak, Gram leaned
close and whispered, “I sure can appreciate a man in denim. You get the chance, you grab onto those scrumptious butt cheeks and squeeze.”
“Gram!”
Gram gave her a pat on the bottom, nudging her toward the unknown. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Dixie Mae.”
Presley let out a laugh.
Why did her heart sound like it was beating out a warning? Thump thump thump became turn back now. Dixie silenced the noises in her head and forced her feet to move toward Presley. He stood at the curb, holding the door open to his Jeep. With the weight of trying to save the Rose draped over her shoulders and the anticipation of being stuck in a small space with Presley for the next few minutes, she climbed into the testosterone-fueled vehicle and sealed her fate.
Chapter Nine
Presley closed the door behind Dixie and let out a sigh. What happened this afternoon would prove either that Dixie was the timid, nervous preacher’s daughter he’d always thought she was or that the fiery redhead had more spunk than he’d given her credit for. Hopefully she’d come through, for the sake of the Rose.
“So, can you drive a stick?” Presley swung into the driver’s seat.
“What?” Dixie looked like she was afraid to touch anything lest she be infected with lust or some airborne STD.
“I figured you could take my Jeep, but it’s got a standard transmission. You ever drive a stick shift before?” He gestured toward the gear shift between them.
Dixie’s frown deepened. Seemed like she did that a lot when they were together. Except for when he kissed her. His thoughts drifted to last night. He sure wouldn’t mind doing that again.
“Once or twice, but it’s been a long time. You know what? I’ll just take the van.” She put a hand on the dash and made a move to open the door.
Presley covered her hand with his. “No minivan. A chick pulls up in a minivan, and it can only mean one of two things.”
She slid her hand out from under his so his palm ended up flat on the dash. “Oh yeah? Enlighten me, please.”
“Fine.” He lifted a finger. “One, the woman has a brood of kids at home, soccer mom style, you know?”