“Definitely.” Patience is a trait I rely on. But being a doormat? Absolutely not. “Thanks for humoring me. I’m getting the hint that this”—I motion between us—“isn’t your gig.”
His snort is crude. “What was your first clue?”
My tolerance for his shitty attitude wears thin. Sour acid churns in my stomach, and I want to ask what I did to offend him. Wracking my brain takes less than a minute, and I’m still at a loss. A tug at the hem of my shirt has me looking down.
Millie thrusts a fistful of slightly wilted wildflowers into my hand. “Here, Mama.”
“These colors are so pretty, baby girl.” I touch the soft petals.
“Ford thought you’d like a bouquet.”
I let my eyebrows arc, aiming the disbelief his way. He’s staring at Millie, utter horror draining the color in his cheeks. “Is that so?” I coo, enjoying the moment.
A garbled choke trips off his chest. “She picked them on the way back for you.”
Millie sticks her tongue out at him. “You’re supposed to play along. My mama never gets flowers.”
He scrubs at the back of his neck. “Well, lucky for her, you grabbed some.”
Her displeasure dives deeper with a pout. “But that’s not romantic.”
Another sharp noise escapes him. “Trust me, Peep. Nothing your mother receives from me will be romantic.”
Healing Hug #7: For reassurance that tomorrow will be better.
Sweat trickles down my temple in relentless rivers. The soggy bandana tied around my head quit stemming the flow an hour ago. At this rate, I’ll be drenched, yet dehydrated, by noon. June is already punishing me within the first week. Air conditioning in the shop isn’t feasible, given the high ceilings and hydraulics. It would cost a small fortune to keep the space cool. All I have at my disposal are fans and natural draft, which is failing me at the moment.
As if hearing my complaints, a rustle in the branches offers a slight breeze. The hot puff can barely be considered a gust, but I’ll take whatever the wind is willing to give. The rising heat isn’t doing any favors for my plummeting mood. I’ve been more foul since…nope, not heading in that direction again. I set down the pliers and reach for a fresh rag. After mopping my forehead, I wipe a glob of grease from my hand. Such a filthy mess. That last thought kick starts another battle in this seemingly endless war against myself.
I glare at my grungy surroundings. This is me—who I am and where I belong. There’s no room for sunny dispositions and irresistible beauty. I blindly toss the rag over my shoulder, similar to how I pushed away a certain blonde. Shutting Keegan down is the only option. Dick move? Absolutely. I learned from the best. My father is the worst type of asshole. He has a specialized degree in treating women like trash. A growl erupts from deep within my gut. Comparing myself to him is low, even for me. I deserve it after the way I treated Keegan, though.
That woman hot wires all of my circuits. My ability to behave as a normal person misfires more than usual in her presence. I’m not sure what’s possessing me to be an intolerable brute. Maybe that’s my customary response. All systems jam, grind to a rusty halt, and destruction ensues.
She makes me want to be a different person, more friendly and capable and suave.
I despise her for forcing such ideas into my brain. My life is mine alone, and that’s always been adequate. Existing without experiencing life to the fullest. What a damn waste. Getting out more probably wouldn’t hurt, but I’ve been satisfied with my isolated routine. Now? Nothing fits quite right.
Patch whines from her shady spot along the far wall.
“Are you hot, girl?” There’s an industrial-sized fan mere feet away, aiming directly at her. The force is powerful enough to send a constant flutter through her fur. I nod toward the direct line of sun currently scorching me in flames. “Want to trade?”
She releases a soft woof.
“I’ll take that as a no.” After checking that her water bowl is still brimming, I deduce that she’s just bored and hot. “We can go to the stream in a bit, okay?”
Her ears perk up, tongue lolling out with loud pants.
“Just the two of us. We won’t be seeing Keegan or Millie again,” I add for no reason other than extra accountability on my part. It’s not as if my dog knows what I’m talking about. Taking a swim on a hot day is good no matter who’s tagging along.
Patch blinks at me, remaining oddly still. After another moment of staring, she yawns and slowly rises to her feet. A long stretch follows. She trots off toward the woods without another huff or bark.
“Figures you’d take her side,” I mutter.
And here I am, talking to a dog. Maybe this weird desire to change my ways is from a lack of human interaction in general. Keegan is the first person I’ve wanted to have a conversation with that wasn’t related to motorcycles or work. I’m too chicken shit to admit the truth—I enjoy Keegan’s company, along with Millie. But I have a hard time believing anyone would balk at having that little girl nearby. Maybe the pint-size kiddo will take me up on my offer to come back. That will give me an excuse to see Keegan again. Getting her to come back causes an erotic beat to pulse through my veins. Heat travels south faster than I can groan. I adjust the bulge in my jeans. What the fuck am I doing, giving shape to these fantasies? It will only lead to disappointment and blue balls.
I should go for a ride and clear this shit out of my head. The wind against me will be a damn nice reprieve, too. Even on days hotter than Hades, speeding across county lines is a relief. Lord knows the open
