“Really, Paige? You had to tell her that you’re having orgies in the backyard?”
Paige’s father, Trevor Morrison, chuckled as he went through the mail at his desk.
“You need to control your temper and that smart mouth of yours,” Denise had said.
“You know what you should start doing?” Trevor said, looking up with a big grin. “You should grow oregano in pots on the window sill and then throw little dime bags into her yard.”
“Trevor, don’t encourage her harassing that woman. Paige, she’s a little bit older, very set in her ways, and a tad bit nosey.”
“She needs to learn to keep her nose on her side of the fence,” Paige had said.
“Don’t let her bother you.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“Well then, maybe you should practice holding your tongue.”
“Yes, mother, I’ll get right on that.”
So, as Paige stared at the massive man in front of her, whom she assumed to be Skeeter, she pursed her lips and held back the smart-ass retort that was on the tip of her tongue.
Be polite, she heard her mother’s voice in her head say. You just spilled animal pee all over his store. And you need to use his phone.
“No,” Paige said, pushing her big sunglasses up her nose and into her hair. “My car broke down and I don’t have any cell phone service. I was wondering if I could use your phone to call a tow truck.”
“I’d call King’s if I were you. They’re the best,” he said as he ripped a piece of receipt paper off the cash register and grabbed a pen with a broken plastic spoon taped to the top. He wrote something down and pushed the paper across the counter.
“Thank you. I can clean that up first,” she said, pointing to the floor.
“I got it. I’d hate for you to get those hands of yours dirty,” he said, moving the phone to her side of the counter.
She just couldn’t win.
* * *
Brendan King leaned against the front bumper of Mr. Thame’s minivan. He was switching out the old belt and replacing it with a new one when his grandfather stuck his head out of the office.
“Brendan,” Oliver King said. “A car broke down on Buckland Road. It’s Paige Morrison, Trevor and Denise Morrison’s daughter. She said the engine was smoking. She had to walk to Skeeter’s to use the phone. I told her you’d pick her up so she didn’t have to walk back.”
Oliver King didn’t look his seventy years. His salt-and-pepper hair was still thick and growing only on the top of his head, and not out of his ears. He had a bit of a belly, but he’d had that for the last twenty years and it wasn’t going anywhere. He’d opened King’s Auto forty-three years ago, when he was twenty-seven. Now, he mainly worked behind the front counter, due to the arthritis in his hands and back. But it was a good thing because King’s Auto was one of only a handful of auto shops in the county. They were always busy, so they needed a constant presence running things out of the shop.
Including Brendan and his grandfather, there were four full-time mechanics and two part-time kids who were still in high school and who worked in the garage. Part of the service that King’s provided was towing, and Brendan was the man on duty on Mondays. And oh was he ever so happy he was on duty today.
Paige Morrison was the new girl in town. Her parents had moved down from Pennsylvania when they’d retired about two years ago, and Paige had moved in with them three months ago. Brendan had yet to meet her but he’d most definitely seen her. You couldn’t really miss her as she jogged around town, with her very long legs, in a wide variety of the brightest and shortest shorts he’d ever seen in his life. His favorite pair had by far been the hot-pink pair, but the zebra-print ones came in a very close second.
He’d also heard about her. People had a lot to say about her more-than-interesting style. It was rumored that she had a bit of a temper and a pretty mouth that said whatever it wanted. Not that Brendan took a lot of stock in gossip. He’d wait to reserve his own judgment.
“Got it,” Brendan said, pulling his gloves off and sticking them in his back pocket. “Tell Randall this still needs new spark plugs,” he said, pointing to the minivan and walking into the office.
“I will.” Oliver nodded and handed Brendan the keys to the tow truck.
Brendan grabbed two waters from the mini-fridge and his sunglasses from the desk and headed off into the scorching heat. It was a hot one, ninety-eight degrees, but the humidity made it feel like one hundred and three. He flipped his baseball cap so that the bill would actually give him some cover from the August sun and when he got into the tow truck he cranked the air as high as it would go.
It took him about fifteen minutes to get to Skeeter’s and when he pulled up into the gravel parking lot, the door to the little shop opened and Brendan couldn’t help but smile.
Paige Morrison’s mile-long legs were shooting out of the sexiest shoes he’d ever seen. She was also wearing a flowing yellow dress that didn’t really cover her amazing legs but did hug her chest and waist, and besides the two skinny straps at her shoulders, her arms were completely bare. Massive sunglasses covered her eyes and her dark brown hair was piled on top of her head.
There was no doubt about it; she was beautiful all right.
Brendan put the truck in park and hopped out.
“Ms. Morrison?” he asked even though he already knew who she was.
“Paige,” she corrected, stopping in front of him. She was probably five foot ten or so, but her shoes added about three inches, making her just as tall as him. If he weren’t wearing his work boots she would’ve been taller than him.
“I’m Brendan King,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake hers. Her hand was soft and warm. He liked how it felt in his. He also liked the freckles that were sprinkled across her high cheekbones and straight, pert nose.
“I’m about a mile up the road,” she said, letting go of his hand and pointing in the opposite direction that he’d come.
“Not the most sensible walking shoes,” he said, eyeing her feet. The toes that peeked out of her shoes were bright red, and a thin band of silver wrapped around the second toe on her right foot. He looked back up to see her arched eyebrows come together for a second before she took a deep breath.
“Thanks for the observation,” she said, walking past him and heading for the passenger door.
Well, this was going to be fun.
* * *
Stupid jerk.
Not the most sensible walking shoes, Paige repeated in her head.
Well, no shit, Sherlock.
Paige sat in the cab of Brendan’s tow truck, trying to keep her temper in check. Her feet were killing her, and she really wanted to kick off her shoes. But she couldn’t do that in front of him because then he would know that her feet were killing her.
“I’m guessing the orange Jeep is yours?” Brendan asked as it came into view.
“Another outstanding observation,” she mumbled under her breath.
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes, it’s mine,” she said, trying to hide her sarcasm.
“Well, at least the engine isn’t smoking anymore,” he said as he pulled in behind it and jumped out of the truck. Paige grabbed her keys from her purse and followed, closing the door behind her.
He stopped behind the back of her Jeep for a moment, studying the half a dozen stickers that covered her bumper and part of her back window.
She had one that said MAKE ART NOT WAR in big blue letters, another said LOVE with a peace sign in the O. There was also a sea turtle, an owl with reading glasses, the Cat in the Hat, and her favorite that said I LOVE BIG BOOKS AND I CANNOT LIE.
He shook his head and laughed, walking to the front of the Jeep.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, catching up to his long stride and standing next to him.
“Keys?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She put them in his palm but didn’t let go.
“What’s so fun
ny?” she repeated.
“Just that you’re clearly not from around here.” He smiled, closing his hand over hers.
Brendan had a southern accent, not nearly as thick as some of the other people’s in town, and a wide cocky smile that she really hated, but only because she kind of liked it. She also kind of liked the five o’clock shadow that covered his square jaw. She couldn’t see anything above his chiseled nose, as half of his face was covered by his sunglasses and the shadow from his grease-stained baseball cap, but she could tell his smile reached all the way up to his eyes.
He was most definitely physically fit, filling out his shirt and pants with wide biceps and thighs. His navy blue button-up shirt had short sleeves, showing off his tanned arms that were covered in tiny blond hairs.
God, he was attractive. But he was also pissing her off.
“I am so sick of everyone saying that,” she said, ripping her hand out of his. “Is it such a bad thing to not be from around here?”
“No,” he said, his mouth quirking. “It’s just very obvious that you’re not.”
“Would I fit in more if I had a bumper sticker that said MY OTHER CAR IS A TRACTOR OR ONE THAT SAID IF YOU’RE NOT CONSERVATIVE YOU JUST AREN’T WORTH IT, or what about WHO NEEDS LITERACY WHEN YOU CAN SHOOT THINGS? What if I had a gun rack mounted on the back window or if I used buck piss as perfume to attract a husband? Would those things make me fit in?” she finished, folding her arms across her chest.
“No, I’d say you could start with not being so judgmental though,” he said with a sarcastic smirk.
“Excuse me?”
“Ma’am, you just called everyone around here gun-toting, illiterate rednecks who like to participate in bestiality. Insulting people really isn’t a way to fit in,” he said, shaking his head. “I would also refrain from spreading your liberal views to the masses, as politics are a bit of a hot-button topic around here. And if you want to attract a husband, you should stick with wearing doe urine, because that attracts only males. The buck urine attracts both males and females.” He stopped and looked her up and down with a slow smile. “But maybe you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, well, everyone in this town thinks that I’m an amoral, promiscuous pothead. And you,” she said, shoving her finger into his chest, “aren’t any better. People make snap judgments about me before I even open my mouth. And just so you know, I’m not even a liberal,” she screamed as she jabbed her finger into his chest a couple of times. She took a deep breath and stepped back, composing herself. “So maybe I would be nice if people would be just a little bit nice to me.”
“I’m quite capable of being nice to people who deserve it. Can I look at your car now, or would you like to yell at me some more?”
“Be my guest,” she said, glaring at him as she moved out of his way.
He unlocked the Jeep and popped the hood. As he moved to the front he pulled off his baseball cap and wiped the top of his head with his hand. Paige glimpsed his short, dirty-blond hair before he put the hat on backward. As he moved around in her engine his shirt pulled tight across his back and shoulders. He twisted off the cap to something and stuck it in his pocket. Then he walked back to his truck and grabbed a jug from a metal box on the side. He came back and poured the liquid into something in the engine and after a few seconds it gushed out of the bottom.
“Your radiator is cracked,” he said, grabbing the cap out of his pocket and screwing it back on. “I’m going to have to tow this back to the shop to replace it.”
“How much?”
“For everything? We’re looking at four maybe five hundred.”
“Just perfect,” she mumbled.
“Would you like a ride? Or were you planning on showing those shoes more of the countryside?”
“I’ll take the ride.”
* * *
Paige was quiet the whole time Brendan loaded her Jeep onto the truck. Her arms were folded under her perfect breasts and she stared at him with her full lips bunched in a scowl. Even pissed off she was stunning, and God, that mouth of hers. He really wanted to see it with an actual smile on it. He was pretty sure it would knock him on his ass.
Speaking of asses, seeing her smile probably wasn’t likely at the moment. True, he had purposefully egged her on, but he couldn’t resist going off on her when she’d let loose her colorful interpretations of the people from the area. A lot of them were true, but there was a difference between making fun of your own people and having an outsider make fun of them. But still, according to her, the people around here hadn’t exactly been nice to her.
Twenty minutes later, with Paige’s Jeep on the back of the tow truck, they were on their way to the shop. Brendan glanced over at her as he drove. She was looking out the window with her back to him. Her shoulders were stiff and she looked like she’d probably had enough stress before her car had decided to die on her.
Brendan looked back at the road and cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry about what I said back there.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shift in her seat and he could feel her eyes on him.
“Thank you. I should have kept my mouth shut too. I just haven’t had the best day.”
“Why?” he asked, glancing over at her again.
Her body was angled toward him, but her arms were still folded across her chest like a shield. He couldn’t help but glance down and see that her dress was slowly riding up her thighs. She had nice thighs, soft but strong. They would be good for…well, a lot of things.
He quickly looked back at the road, thankful he was wearing sunglasses.
“I’ve been trying to get a job. Today I had an interview, except it wasn’t much of an interview.”
“What was it?” he asked.
“A setup.”
“A setup for what?”
“That is the question,” she said bitterly.
“Huh?” he asked, looking at her again.
“I’m assuming you know who Bethelda Grimshaw is?”
Brendan’s blood pressure had a tendency to rise at the mere mention of that name. Knowing that Bethelda had a part in Paige’s current mood had Brendan’s temper flaring instantly.
“What did she do?” he asked darkly.
Paige’s eyebrows raised a fraction at his tone. She stared at him for a second before she answered. “There was a job opening at the Mirabelle Information Center to take pictures for the brochures and the local businesses for their Web site. They filled the position last week, something that Mrs. Grimshaw failed to mention when she called this morning to confirm my interview.”
“She’s looking for her next story.”
“What?”
“Bethelda Grimshaw is Mirabelle’s resident gossip,” Brendan said harshly as he looked back to the road. “She got fired from the newspaper a couple of years ago because of the trash she wrote. Now she has a blog to spread her crap around.”
“And she wants to write about me? Why?”
“I can think of a few reasons.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her voice going up an octave or two.
“Your ability to fly off the handle. Did you give her something to write about?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he spared a glance at her.
“No,” she said, bunching her full lips together. “I saved my freak-out for you.”
“I deserved it. I wasn’t exactly nice to you,” Brendan said, shifting his hands down the steering wheel.
“You were a jerk.”
Brendan came to a stop at a stop sign and turned completely in his seat to face Paige. Her eyebrows rose high over her sunglasses and she held her breath.
“I was, and I’m sorry,” he said, putting every ounce of sincerity into his words.
“It’s…I forgive you,” she said softly and nodded her head.
Brendan turned back to the intersection and made a right. Paige was silent for a few moments, but he could feel her gaze on him as if she wanted to
say something.
“What?”
“Why does buck urine attract males and females?”
Brendan couldn’t help but smile.
“Bucks like to fight each other,” he said, looking at her.
“Oh.” She nodded and leaned back in her seat staring out the front window.
“You thirsty?” Brendan asked as he grabbed one of the waters in the cup holder and held it out to her.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, grabbing it and downing half of the bottle.
“Who were the other interviews with?” Brendan asked, grabbing the other bottle for himself. He twisted the cap off and threw it into the cup holder.
“Landingham Printing and Design. Mrs. Landingham said I wouldn’t be a good fit. Which is completely false because the program they use is one that I’ve used before.”
Now he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Uh, Paige, I can tell you right now why you didn’t get that job. Mrs. Landingham didn’t want you around Mr. Landingham.”
“What?” she said, sitting up in her seat again. “What did she think I was going to do, steal her husband? I don’t make plays on married men. Or men in their forties for that matter.”
“Did you wear something like what you’re wearing now to the interview?” he asked, looking at her and taking another eyeful of those long legs.
“I wore a black blazer with this. It’s just so hot outside that I took it off.”
“Maybe you should try wearing pants next time, and flats,” he said before he took a sip of water.
“What’s wrong with this dress?” she asked, looking down at herself. “It isn’t that short.”
“Sweetheart, with those legs, anything looks short.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart. And it isn’t my fault I’m tall.”
“No, it isn’t, but people think the way they think.”
“So southern hospitality only goes so far when people think you’re a whore.”
“Hey, I didn’t say that. I was just saying that your legs are long without those shoes that you’re currently wearing. With them, you’re pretty damn intimidating.”
“Let’s stop talking about my legs.”
“Fine.” He shrugged, looking back to the road. “But it is a rather visually stimulating conversation.”
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