by Darrel, Skye
“Looks good to me.”
“Sweet of you to say.”
“I mean it, Picasso.”
She closes the notebook. “Doll face to Picasso. That’s a change.”
“I call you doll face because you’re beautiful, it was never an insult.”
The faintest smile creases her lips, and she blushes. “Thank you.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I add quickly.
I shouldn’t have put to words what’s been bothering me since we met. She may not think much of herself, but to me she’s beauitful, end of fucking story. I can’t believe she’s walking around some country road selling houses like her life depends on it. She should be sitting on a throne and worshipped like the princess she is, every inch of her body well-kissed.
But not by me.
No fucking way.
This girl needs to be cherished and loved. I’m no good at either. What I feel is some animal lust, nothing more than that. I have my mission and it doesn’t involve her.
My eyes sweep the road. “When you were out here, did you see any red pickup trucks go past?”
“Don’t think so,” she says.
“Did you or didn’t you?”
“Um, I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Didn’t I tell you to watch out for cars coming up the road?”
“What are you so worried about? Watch out for who?” She pauses. “I did see a red pickup yesterday. I think it was a Toyota or maybe a Ford—”
I grab her shoulders. “Where?”
“Not here,” she stammers. “At Ruby’s Motel, in the parking lot. The guy who drove it was a drug dealer.”
“He get a good look at you? He saw your face?”
“Yeah. I mean, so what? I didn’t report him or anything. Should I have? There was a woman there with her baby. I think she was buying.”
She’s not the only one. This whole town is being sucked into Verne Resnik’s corruption.
“Forget it,” I say. The road is clear now, and the sun’s late in the sky. I walk toward the lawnmower. “Rest on the porch,” I bark. “I’ll work on the lawn.”
When I get the mower started, Natalie has pulled out a chair. She watches me with a frown.
5
This Is Not a Date
Natalie
I don’t get him. One moment he’s a brute, gentle the next. Then he’s talking about danger and pickup trucks.
I try to clear my head, but it’s hopeless.
What does he think of me? If he thinks anything. Why do I even care what he thinks?
Asher Wade is a job, that’s all. I get his property presentable and I can sell the house next door. Then it’s back to DC, onward with my life. Even though the mere thought of seeing my boss, the great Liam Branigan the Third—he insists everyone call him The Third—makes my skin crawl.
I’ll give Asher this as far as men go—he doesn’t make my skin crawl. Oh no. He makes my skin warm in other ways.
He pushes the lawnmower to the edge of the area I’d cleared, his shoulder muscles straining, his abs tucking into ridges, his whole body rippling with strength.
Okay. He’s hot.
He’s smoking hot and sexy and freaking big in all the right ways. After a few laps around the yard, his chest glistens under the afternoon sun. A breeze tousles the gorgeous hair. With jeans on, he has no trouble wading through the taller weeds with thorns. I touch my bandaged knee and pout.
The view of his backside is just as good. I’ve never been turned on by a guy’s back before, slabs of muscle shifting under his skin, tapering down to those tight, narrow hips. His butt looks solid.
I bring my knees together as warmth pools between my thighs, and I feel a tug down there, my panties sticking to me in a sheet of liquid heat.
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath.
Hansel, stretched out on the porch nearby, slants his head.
“Not you,” I say. “You’re a perfect dog.”
A happy bark. Tongue out and panting. Head down again. I can tell what Hansel’s thinking even if he can’t speak. Unlike Asher.
I open my notebook to the drawings I made this morning.
No one has ever complimented my sketches before. No one at Branigan Realty even cares about my drawings, and why should they? I’m just a silly little girl who doodles in her spare time. No one takes me seriously.
But Asher liked my drawings. To have someone appreciate the passion you’ve nursed for so long—that alone is good, isn’t it?
I take out the charcoal pencil from my bag and flip to a clean page in my notebook. I begin sketching Asher, the hard lines of his body, those pale blue eyes searching for weeds. It’s hard to get his eyes right with charcoal.
His muscles aren’t for show either. He works fast, ripping out weeds by the handful, and before long, he’s got a quarter of the lawn cleared. The veins in his biceps are visible even from the porch.
I’m flustered and I can’t take it anymore. The sky’s fading to orange.
“It’s getting late!” I shout. “I wanna head back to Goldilocks.”
Asher wipes his brow before he shuts off the mower and walks over. “What are you drawing now?”
I snap my notebook shut, tuck it into my bag. “Show you when I’m done.”
He grunts, heads inside, and comes out clean ten minutes later. He’s also put a shirt on. Shocking.
We look at the yard for a while. Way better than it’d looked this morning in my humble opinion.
“Might take a couple of days to get this squared away,” he says.
“Huh?”
“To finish the lawn.”
“Oh.”
“Where’d you park that little car of yours?”
“Gatsby’s driveway.” I glance at him. “My Beetle may be small, but Ladybug never lets me down.”
“You named your car Ladybug?”
“Mm-hm.”
“How cute.”
I huff.
For a while he seems to be on the verge of speaking, but then he’d clench his jaw and look at the grass some more. I haven’t felt this awkward since my eighth-grade dance.
“You thirsty?” he says out of the blue.
“Oh I’m fine. You seem very protective of your water.”
He has the tact to look abashed. “I meant alcohol. Buy you a drink?”
Staring at his handsome face, I agree before my brain can protest.
Asher insists on walking me to my Beetle, even though Gatsby’s house is right next door. When we come up the road, I spot my car where I left it in the driveway.
“Give me your number,” Asher says.
“Excuse me?”
“In case a problem comes up,” he says. “So I can reach you. Or you can reach me.”
“I know the road to Goldilocks, Asher. I won’t get lost.”
“I don’t mean tonight. I mean anytime, as long as you’re in Salma’s Hope.”
I hesitate, but in the end we exchange numbers. Just by how he’s acting, my creep alarm should blow off the scale, but in all honesty I haven’t felt this safe with a man in a long time.
The worry on his face is almost touching.
“Meet you at Goldilocks in an hour,” he says and turns back toward his house.
“You better not be late!” I yell.
He raises one hand as he walks away. I think it’s a wave.
* * *
Two hours later, I’m sitting at the bar in Goldilocks. By myself. I wouldn’t say I’m mad or even disappointed that he’s late. It’s not the first time a man has stood me up or broken a promise or generally treated me like I’m the least important thing on his list. But I’m surprised Asher would. I’m more surprised that I’m surprised.
What was I expecting? A gentleman? I barely know him. Asher Wade is the last thing that comes to mind when I think of the word gentleman.
I thanked Juno for calling him yesterday. She’s probably the only reason he even let me t
ouch his lawn. He probably just wants me out of his hair.
Why should he care about me?
Why’d he even ask for my number?
Maybe he’s playing a prank, stringing me along.
Stupid jerk-off.
Juno’s busy tonight, bouncing back and forth between the bar and tables. She told me it’s Cora’s night off, so she has to manage the whole place by herself. I’m about to ask if I can help when my phone vibrates. It’s Asher Wade.
“You’re late,” I say.
“Had to meet with someone. He didn’t show and I waited for him. Natalie, I’m sorry.”
He sounds so earnest my anger melts before it surges again. Meet someone? “Meet who?”
“Nothing to do with you,” Asher says gruffly. “A man. For my work. Natalie, it was an honest mistake. It won’t happen again.”
My stomach does somersaults. It’s weird listening to him half-apologize. “Fine, whatever. I’m at the bar.”
“I’m in the back lot,” he says.
“Yes, I’m aware you’re not sitting in front of me. Why, may I ask, are you in the back lot?”
“It’s too packed in there. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Huh?”
“Natalie, you were at Goldilocks yesterday, you know this town likes to gossip. I’m in no mood for that.”
“And I’m in no mood to go somewhere else.” I rub my eyes. Hard to believe I got myself worked up over this guy. “You know what? Forget it. It’s been fun, Asher. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Doll face, if you hang up this phone I’ll go in there and throw you over my shoulder.”
“What?”
“You heard what I said.” His voice sounds almost—playful. “Come on out, let me make this up to you.”
My eyes dart around the bar, but no one’s paying attention to me. Juno chats with a couple sitting near the door about something on the menu.
“If I don’t meet you tonight,” I hiss into my phone, “you’re going to kidnap me?”
“No, I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you to my car.”
“That’s called kidnapping.”
“Just come out here, Princess,” he says with so much freaking charm he sounds like another man.
“This is the twenty-first century, Asher. Women are no longer turned on by threats of kidnapping, if we ever were.”
“You want me to turn you on?”
“No, what I meant was . . .” I scoff and end the call. I was never good at flirting, if that’s what this is. No, it is not flirting. I was not flirting with him. Clutching the strap of my bag, I stomp outside to the back lot and see him behind the wheel of a sleek Mustang, black as night.
Asher’s leaning against the driver side and rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m not normally late to anything. I always keep my promises. Sorry, Natalie.”
I feel my face get warm. “I only came out because you made me lunch,” I snap. “I’m being courteous. This is not a date. I don’t want you to turn me on. All I want is a stupid drink paid for by you. That’s it.”
“All right.” He opens the passenger side door. “Get in.”
Here we go.
We end up at a waterfront restaurant, where he buys me dinner. The food costs twice as much as Juno’s and comes in smaller portions. The wine is decent. Asher says none of the few other diners are locals.
We eat pan-fried crab cakes garnished with lemongrass, sautéed sea bass, and an herb salad that prickles my tongue with flavor. Everything tastes good. Asher seems to be enjoying himself, without that tension in his jaw. He even smiles at me and his perfect teeth are startlingly white.
“This is just dinner,” I blurt out. “That’s it. I’m not getting in bed with you if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. The wine’s going to my head.
Asher looks at me steadily, and I have no idea what’s going through his head. “You don’t trust men,” he says.
He could’ve said a hundred things. He could’ve made a joke or hit back with a barb of his own—I’m flattering myself, I’m being paranoid, he has zero interest. Instead he rips the truth from my heart of hearts and lays it bare.
I shrug. “Had a bad experience with one.”
“Who?”
“My boss.”
“Liam Branigan the Third? The prick who sent you here with no backup?”
I nod.
His face tightens. “What kind of bad experience?”
“Forget it. Once I sell Gatsby’s house, I won’t have to see him ever again. I’ll quit.”
“I thought you need your job.”
“I need the money. I need the commission I’ll get from selling Gatsby’s house. It’s worth 1.4 million. Branigan Realty receives a ten percent commission. I get five percent of that. Enough for me to quit and start over.”
“That’s only seven thousand dollars,” he says at once.
“You did that in your head?”
“I’m good with numbers.”
“Well, it’s a lot of money for me. It’s what I need. But if I don’t sell Gatsby’s house, Branigan will fire me, and I’ll get exactly zero dollars. I’ll lose everything. Simple enough for you?”
“What did Branigan do to you, Natalie?”
“Doesn’t matter now.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Asher leans over the table. “Whatever he did, I’m not him. I’d never hurt you.”
I look down for a moment.
By now we’re the only ones in the restaurant and the silence lasts too long.
“What about you?” I stammer. “What do you do?” Today is Tuesday and he spent the whole day at his house.
“I’m working on a special project,” Asher says after a pause. “You know the casino outside town?”
“Juno’s daughter mentioned it.”
“The man who owns that casino is called Verne Resnik, and I owe him a debt.”
“Don’t tell me you gamble.”
“Not that kind of debt,” Asher says. “Resnik took something very precious from me. I mean to pay him back.”
I gulp, unsure if I even want to know. His face has hardened again, and I shrink back against my seat. “Um, okay.”
“Forget I said anything,” he says with a smile that could kill. “You’re not from around here, it’s no problem of yours.”
Fine. Whatever.
I focus on my food. Salma’s Hope is a small town and I’m an outsider. I’m sure there are lots of problems I don’t know about, and I don’t want to know. Drug deals in broad daylight are bad enough. Who knows what else? I have enough problems of my own, like sorting through my feelings for a guy who keeps calling me doll face.
The server brings us an ninety-dollar check, most of it for the wine, and I reach for my purse, but Asher shakes his head and pays it all himself.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I mutter.
“I said I’d buy you a drink.” He puts his wallet away. “Don’t worry, Natalie. As you said, this isn’t a date. I’m showing my gratitude for your impeccable landscaping.”
My face warms. I can’t stop blushing around this freaking man.
The wine isn’t helping.
“You do owe me for landscaping. I worked my butt off.”
“I noticed,” he says in a tone that could mean anything or nothing.
Five minutes later, he steers me through the parking lot to his black Mustang, with his hand on my lower back. It’s getting touchy for a not-date.
And this is totally not a date.
Not in a million years would I go on a date or get in bed with Asher Wade. My brain is clear on that point, but the rest of my body refuses to acknowledge it.
Stupid body.
He drives me back to Goldilocks, following a road that borders the river. The turn to Main Street is right ahead, but Asher slows to a crawl and stares at the river’s dark surface,
dappled with lights from the waterfront.
A car honks behind us.
Asher steps on the gas.
“You like the river?” I ask.
His hands are tight on the steering wheel. “Not really.”
He sounds as if he hates the river.
I let the silence hang.
We turn onto Main Street while I play with the straps over my bag. When we stop at the last intersection before Goldilocks, I look out my window and see Cora at an outdoor table in front of an ice cream parlor. She picks at a sundae, her platinum blonde hair in a braid I couldn’t pull off in a thousand years.
I smile. “Juno doesn’t serve ice cream or something?”
“She does. Best ice cream in town.”
“Does she let Cora eat sweets?”
“Last I checked. Why?”
I tap the window. “She’s not eating it at Goldilocks.”
Asher looks across just as a teenage boy strolls out of the parlor carrying two tall drinks. It’s the same boy I saw last night with his moppy hair, making Cora laugh.
They must be on a date.
Whoops.
I block Asher’s view. “Hey, you know what, it’s not her. Let's go.”
He pushes me back gently. The light has turned green, but he’s not moving. “I didn’t know Cora had a boyfriend,” Asher says. “Juno would never let her out this late.”
“Calm down, you’re not her father. They’re probably good friends that’s all.” Right as I say the words, Boyfriend leans into Cora with his eyes half-closed. She holds his face.
“That little shit is kissing her,” Asher growls.
“Oh come on—” I begin.
He slams the gas and Cora sees us whip past.
I catch the horror on her face.
Asher barrels down the street and parallel parks in an empty space with tires screeching.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
“I’m taking her home. Juno asked me a long time ago to watch over her daughter, and I aim to keep that promise.”
“You don’t even know who that boy is! They could be classmates!”
“Cora is sixteen, Natalie. It stands to reason that scrawny little shit is also thereabouts. Do you know what I wanted with my female classmates when I was about sixteen?”