by Emily Childs
Stop. I don’t care to wonder about this woman. She needs a few lessons in manners, and I’m grumpy enough in this moment to teach her some.
With all our accent fun tonight, I’m warmed up to give her the best drawl of her life. She wants hick, she’ll get hick. “You know what, Miss? You just so happened to land right here in a car shop. And golly, wouldn’t you know, I own the place. You just hold tight, now, and I reckon I can have you fixed on up in no time. We might talk slow here, but ohhhweee we sure work fast with our hands.”
She’s not buying it and looks at me like I’m about to morph into some kind of creature. “You’ll fix the car?”
“Suuuurrre will, sugar.” I lay it on thick.
“Oh.” Her voice softer, like a normal human. “Great. I will pay for the damage and the labor.”
“Bless your heart,” I say and start into the shop. “A purty thing like you? How ‘bout we just call it even since you plopped into my shop.”
Again, she’s suspicious. I muffle a laugh when I snag the hide-a-key and unlock the front door. Inside, I roll my eyes and pick up my landline. It rings three times before a husky voice breaks through.
“North Honeyville Police.”
“Hi, this is Zachariah Dawson, I’m calling to report an accident and an attempted hit and run. Yeah,” I say to the operator. “No, a person wasn’t hit, but my business was. Uh, huh. Yeah, she’s talking about fleeing the scene, but I’ve got her stalled. Yeah, thanks.”
I give my address and hang up, smiling. When I head back outside, she’s hugging her middle, waiting outside the car with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
She’s athletic, lean, but with enough curves that I notice. She looks sorry, and I feel a little bad I took this to a new extreme by calling the police. Clearing my throat, I avoid her gaze and pretend to be working on the car. An inertia switch reset, but I’m not really doing anything.
“Thanks, for doing this,” she say. “Sorry for being so rude, I shouldn’t have been so abrasive.”
I grunt. My stomach turns sour.
We pass the next few minutes in silence. I crouch by the front, doing nothing really, when the patrol car enters the lot.
“What?” Her mouth drops. “Did you . . . did you call the police?”
And so it begins.
The officer stalks toward us. “Ma’am, we got a call you were trying to flee the scene of an accident.”
Her strangely beautiful eyes cut me in half. “No, officer, I offered to pay—”
I laugh. “Sorry, but us hicks know when there’s a runner, and we don’t take well to dishonest people.”
“Dishonest? You lied to me.”
“You destroyed my property.”
“Ma’am, can I get your license and the registration for this vehicle?” The office asks, glancing at the bumper.
“Fine.” She digs through the bag handing over her license before moving to the glove compartment. “It belongs to my boyfriend, Doctor Emmitt Baron.”
“Doctor? Sounds mighty fancy.” I add for good measure.
She shoots me with a scathing gaze, and I decide it’s probably best to put the drawl on hold for a minute.
The officer scans the paperwork and sighs again. “Miss Richards?”
“Yes, Josephine Richards. I’m a Physician Assistant who is needed back home.”
The officer isn’t impressed, but I’m intrigued. Josephine Richards—a firecracker I’m not sure if I hate or want to know better.
“Ma’am, do you know this vehicle is four months beyond the registration date?” asks the officer.
“What!” She scans the papers. “I didn’t know. It’s not my car.”
I feel bad for her. Sort of.
“Why don’t we go to the station and we’ll get this straightened out?”
“No,” she shrieks and pulls back from the cop. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting in this car and going home to Brooklyn and getting as far away from this stupid, bumpkin place as possible.”
“Mr. Dawson, you say she tried to flee?” the officer snaps, a new fury in his eyes.
I glance at the beautiful, ill-mannered Josephine once, then nod. “Yes, sir. As you can see, I now have a safety hazard and expense on my hands.”
“Alright, come on, miss. You understand it’s illegal to flee the scene of an accident, not to mention with an unregistered vehicle.”
“Obviously, I didn’t flee,” she says. “And as I said, this isn’t my car.”
“Attempted to flee.” The officer groans. “We’ll just go ask you a few questions about your business in Honeyville, and why you’re driving a car other than your own, as you say.”
“If you’re insinuating I stole it, then you are way off base, officer. I happened to be in this awful place for a medical conference. You can look it up. It was in Charleston.”
“Well, we’re all impressed. But even a physician assistant can get questioned by the police, Miss Richards. Now, you can come with me on your own volition, or I can cuff you.” He takes out a set of silver handcuffs as if to prove his point.
She glares at me, her voice dangerous and gritty. “This is your fault. I won’t forget.”
“Yeah, I won’t forget who messed up my place of business either, Jo—you don’t mind if I call you, Jo, right? Go on now, welcome to your own piece of southern hospitality.”
She straightens her shoulders and stomps toward the patrol car, and takes a seat in the back without a word.
The officer runs his hand through his cropped hair and shakes his head. “You can come down and press charges if you’d like, Mr. Dawson. Sounds like she’ll be able to post bail with her being a . . . whatever she is, and all.”
“This needs to be dealt with sooner than later,” I say as I point at the crushed pole. “If she takes off, odds are I won’t see reimbursement anytime soon.”
“Likely.” The officer scratches his chin. “I’ll see if we can hold her for forty-eight hours, but we can’t keep her without cause and charges.”
Good thing I have a judge in my back pocket. Judge McKinnon has had eyes for my mom for the better part of a decade. Maybe I can call in a favor to show this haughty—admittedly beautiful—woman what happens when you mess with good ole southern boys with raging headaches.
“Thanks, sir,” I tell the cop. “I’ll be in touch when I decide what to do.”
He waves and strides back to his cruiser. Josephine turns her steely gaze on me. She’s something else. There is a kinder side in there, she’d almost let it out before turning back into the Wicked Witch.
This woman is a challenge, and to be honest, I’m interested in rising to whatever fight she might bring. Simply for the fun of it, and maybe, simply to see her again.
Fall in Love with Zac and Jo in
Don’t Marry the Enemy
Coming Soon
For more Rafe and Olive click the link below to get two bonus scenes and finally find out exactly what happened in Minnesota PLUS a peek at their first anniversary.
Click here: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/z01jfdpskr
Chapter 1
Jo
I tie my hair off my neck. The gold in my hair is more vibrant in the summer sun. My pale cheeks can’t say the same, but I’ve been indoors for weeks it seems. But making up the extra hours at the clinic is necessary since I’m being forced on leave against my will.
“Emmitt, have you seen my toiletry bag?” I call from the bedroom. No response. Rolling my eyes I hurry to the wide front room of our New York apartment. Emmitt is on the white sofa, lost in his cell phone, still dressed in his green scrubs from his late shift. “Emmitt?”
“What’s up, babe?” he asks innocently. Emmitt isn’t brawny, but he has a strong chin and it fits his lean body.
“Have you seen my toiletry bag?”
He glances at his screen again. I hate that stupid game app. He shakes his head. “Sorry, sweetie.” Gunshots ping from the phone and his tongue pokes out in concentr
ation. “I haven’t. Do you really need a separate bag?”
“I need toiletries, Emmitt.” I take up my second round of searching. “You know, makeup, deodorant, toothpaste. I’m not going to slum it like those people the entire four weeks. Emmitt, can you please help me finish up if you’re driving me?”
He groans and drags his heavy footsteps into our room. “Jo, put a smile on that face. It’s not going to be so bad.”
I glare at him. “Not that bad? Emmitt, I’m staying in a place where people hate me, and I will be required to work around dirty, sweaty, nasty men. Doesn’t that worry you at all?”
He kisses my forehead, but if feels almost businesslike more than affectionate. “No, I’m not worried. You can handle yourself. And I think you don’t want to go back for other reasons.”
I sigh. A piece of that is true. The day I stood in front of the judge in a muggy courtroom was one of the worst. I spent thirty-six hours in a terrible cell. I’d been grungy, exhausted, and almost grateful my cased was expedited. Until I saw the judge.
A judge who grinned all too friendly at Mr. Zac Dawson. The worst man in existence.
I don’t know much about the legal system, but I’m heavily suspicious there’d been a conflict of interest somewhere in the mix. At first I thought Emmitt had something to do with the rush on my sentencing, but now I know it had everything to do with Zac. All to fix his stupid shop, he humiliated me and forced me into a situation I can’t escape.
Not a fine, like a sensible consequence, no the judge tossed out the big guns. I’d work off my debt. And not just anywhere. I’m working my community service for Zac Dawson. At his shop! Yes, working for the man who caused this whole thing.
Well, except the part where I smashed into the pole, but that is beside the point.
Emmitt’s father is a defense attorney, and I’d immediately asked for help. All that came of it was a laugh-fest between father and son. Mr. Baron thought it was hilarious the southern court would make me work in the shop. He encouraged me not to fight the order, or risk ending up with a hefty fine, or something worse.
So, here I am. Ready to fly out to my sentence and hating every second of it.
I settle for a Ziploc bag as my toiletry case when it’s nowhere to be found. Emmitt is too cheerful about this entire thing, and I can’t help but feeling a little resentful. He was the one who’d forgotten my plane ticket, forgotten to register his stupid car, and now I’m paying the price.
He apologized, of course, and only asked me to pay half the damages to his car. He covered the rest, and made sure I had two weeks of paid vacation time to help cover the absence from work. Some vacation. But the real problem is the way my boyfriend of three years thinks my distress is funny.
“Ready, babe?” he calls to me thirty minutes later.
I drag my suitcase to the front door. It’s a little early, but Emmitt is due at the clinic and insisted on dropping me off on his way.
“You’ll call me when you get settled in the motel?” he asks as we pull into the terminal twenty minutes later.
“I’ll probably catch a disease wherever they set me up, so I’m likely not coming back.”
Emmitt laughs and kisses the top of my hand. “Jo, come on, they’re not a third world country. You’ll be fine. There’s a reason it’s called southern hospitality, right?”
I wince. That’s the last thing Zac said to me. “Yeah, I got a great glimpse at their type of hospitality.”
“Do you know who is supposed to pick you up?”
“In the summons, I was told a court appointed pick-up would be waiting, and if I was more than an hour late, a warrant would be issued. Like I’m some violent criminal.”
“Sweetie, if I can give you some advice, I’d keep your tongue lashings to a minimum. I think that’s what got you into this mess in the first place.”
My jaw tightens. No, it was your unregistered car! Okay, maybe a little bit of my temper had played a part, but still.
“I’ll behave,” I promise. “You’ll keep an eye on my patients, right? Greta is good, but . . .”
I don’t finish. The thought of the ditzy PA handling my caseload makes my stomach sour.
“Greta will do fine,” Emmitt says with a grin. “But I’ll still check in while you’re gone.”
“Emmitt, remember, I don’t want everyone at the office knowing the details, okay?”
“It’s kind of funny, Jo.” He holds up a hand when I shoot him with a glare. “Okay, I’ll keep the rumors toned down.”
The SUV—my other enemy—hugs the curb. Emmitt helps me with my suitcase before checking the time on my phone. He kisses me quickly, leaving me wanting more, then waves. “Call me, sweetie. I’ve got to go.”
I watch him leave the terminal and whisper, “Love you.”
Shaking off the hasty farewell, I enter the airport. My determination switches on. Four weeks. I can survive four weeks. One thing is certain, I’ll make sure Zac Dawson never forgets the day he messed with Josephine Richards.
***
Zac
I glance at the clock, mutter a curse, and try a little harder to scrub the grease off my hands. I’m going to be late.
“I thought you were long gone.”
I look over my shoulder at Rafe. “Trying to leave. How was the first day back?”
Rafe Whitfield is my closest friend. It helped to have August back at the shop while Rafe was on his honeymoon, but August is married too, with a rowdy one-year-old. It’s not like we did a ton of hanging out.
“I’m jet-lagged,” he says. “But it’s good to be home.”
“Yeah? Still a fan of married life?”
Rafe rolls his eyes. “You think after two weeks I’d be sick of it?”
“No,” I tell him as I dry my hands. “No, you and Ollie are nauseating.”
He grins. The same smile the man has worn since the day he proposed to Olive. “I’m glad I’m living up to my purpose in life and making you sick every day. I am a little disappointed I missed all the fun back here, though.”
I snort and stare at the recently repaired pole in the front parking lot. “It wasn’t all that exciting. More aggravating. Trust me, when you meet this woman, I think you’ll see we’re being punished. I’m not sure what McKinnon was thinking having her work it off at the shop. Why not pick up garbage on the roads or something?”
“Who knows? Probably showing his good side to impress your mama.”
Can’t argue that. Still, McKinnon needs to get a clue. My daddy died when I was eleven—twelve years later, my mom still isn’t interested in the plum-faced judge. But at least he expedited the court date for me, and that meant the repairs were in place by the end of the next week after the accident. I’m still waiting for her insurance company to send a check, but I suppose if they don’t I know right where she’ll be to get what I’m owed.
“She’s awful, man,” I say. “We’ll all be insane by the time it’s all over.”
Rafe laughs. “You’ve said that about a hundred times today. You sure she’s as awful as you say?”
I strip off my jumpsuit, and slug his shoulder. “Watch it. Not all women are like Ollie, fiery and kind, at the same time. This one will let us know how insignificant we are for living where we do, and for how we talk. Oh, and don’t forget she’s dating a doctor. She threw that in my face again when she got her sentence handed out, as if that would make some sort of difference in her being a snob.”
“Maybe she’s had time to cool down.”
“Doubt that.”
“You going to throw it back at her that you do just fine for a lowly southern mechanic?”
He’s trying to keep his tone light, but I know Rafe has little patience for those who look down on others based on money. Olive comes from old southern money and it nearly came between them. Rafe won’t take kindly to Jo Richards tossing careers and status in our faces. And he’s right. I do well with the shop.
“Let her think what she wants,” I say. “I�
��m just glad she’s going to get a chance to be knocked off her high horse. Maybe it is better than having her pay a fine.”
I run water through my hair, but give up when it refuses to settle how I want. My beard is trimmed, but longer than when I met Josephine. I hadn’t volunteered to pick her up, but when McKinnon suggested it, I didn’t say no either.
Jo will be mad as a hornet. I’m looking forward to it.
“Alright, I’m out of here.”
Rafe grabs a drink of water before heading toward the shop. “Don’t let her murder you. See you later.”
The airport is busy with Friday travel. I glance at my watch. She has twenty minutes until I’m supposed to report a no-show to the court. I drum my hands on my dark jeans and scan the vending machines. Maybe I’m wrong, but Josephine didn’t seem the type not to show. She’s too Type A.
Then I hear a familiar voice. With the roughness of Brooklyn in the undertones.
“I’m supposed to be picked up. Do you know where assigned cars pick-up passengers?”
There she is—sassy Josephine. Last I saw her, she slumped wearily in the defendant seat in the courtroom. Her hair had been braided, her cheeks almost sallow. I take a moment to admire her in a new light. Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her unique eyes are large and bright. She clutches a thick novel in the crook of her arm, and tugs a roller suitcase behind her.
I don’t like her. But I can admit she’s beautiful.
But I ought to tell her those needle stilettos aren’t going to suit when she joins the shop.
The airport attendant she’s speaking with points toward the doors leading to the curbside pickup. I clear my throat and meander through the crowds, my heart thudding a little faster as I tap her elbow.
Her eyes widen, before narrowing into slits. “What are you doing here?”
I only pull out my pompous side for special occasions like today. “Heard there was a felon from Brooklyn who needed to be taken to her post for a few days.”
Her lips pull tight. “I am not a felon. I imagined someone from the station would drive me.”