Hard to Love (Prophecy of Love #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Motherfucking fan belt.

Probably because all he’d cared about was getting to Prophecy and the potential opportunity waiting there.

Yesterday, he’d crossed the state line just west of Dalhart and had let himself enjoy—just for a minute—the pleasure of being back home.

But Texas was the dead last place he should allow himself to become careless. Yet his temperature gauge, when its needle climbed from normal to you’re-about-to-blow-your-engine-dumbass, proved he’d been exactly that. And the inevitable had come around to shoot him a big, fat middle finger.

Just his luck, he’d already driven through Llano and wasn’t quite close enough to the Horseshoe Bay turnoff to be back in civilization. Considering that Prophecy was still a thirty-minute drive and he had an appointment in an hour, he was screwed.

At least the sun shining down on his freshly shaved head was a relatively mild ball of April warmth rather than an August heat blast. He slammed his car’s hood and resisted the urge to kick the tires like a cranky toddler.

That would just mess up his boots, and they were the nicest thing in his wardrobe.

From his car he grabbed his wallet, a plain blue ball cap, and his pay-by-the-month cell phone. Not a damn thing to do now but start walking and make a call he didn’t want to make.

But if he didn’t, he could kiss the leather tooling contract with Prophecy Boot Company adios.

Not an option. Because that contract was his future. His family’s future.

He stared at his phone and took a deep breath to fortify himself. Here he was, Alejandro Luis Enrique Villanueva, scared to call a girl. Oh, the mighty hadn’t just fallen, the mighty had lost his cajones somewhere along the way.

He punched the button to redial the most recent incoming call. Three rings later, a smooth feminine voice drawled, “Prophecy Boot Company.”

“Delaney Shields?”

“She’s not in yet.” That dulce de leche voice on the other end of the line was making him sweat in a way the weather never could. “Can I take a message?”

“This is Alex Villanueva. I have an appointment with Ms. Shields this morning.”

“Yes, we’re expecting you.”

We? “I’ll be late. A little fan belt trouble.”

“Oh?” Ms. Dulce de Leche’s voice lost a teaspoon of sugar, sounding strangely disappointed. “Do you need to reschedule?”

Hell, no. He knew Delaney Shields was interviewing at least three toolers for a shot at a contract to carve leather for Prophecy Boot Company. And not just random leather toolers. Three of the best in the business. And he was one of them.

The difference between him and the others was this gig could allow him to set up shop near his mamá and younger brother. Maybe even buy them the house his mamá had wanted for so long.

Alex swiped a hand over this face. “It won’t take me long to take care of this. If we could just push the appointment back an hour—”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“A ’96 Pontiac Bonneville.” Thrown off balance by her question, he answered instinctively. “But why do you need to—”

“And where are you?”

How had this conversation jumped the tracks? “Look, I can be in Prophecy once I get this fan belt fixed. Noon at the latest.”

“You wouldn’t want to disappoint Delaney, would you?”

“No, but—”

“Then what road are you on, and how far are you from Prophecy?” she asked cheerfully.

“Are you a tow truck driver?”

“Nope, I’m Prophecy Boot Company’s bookkeeper.” Her laughter waved over the phone, making Alex’s ear tingle with awareness. “Are you always suspicious of people willing to help you?”

In short, yes. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. “I’m about twenty miles out on Highway 29.”

“Stay there and I’ll see you in less than half an hour.”

“Hey, wait. What’s your na—”

But Ms. Dulce de Leche had already hung up. Alex glanced down at himself and spotted a black smear on the right sleeve of his white long-sleeved shirt. Shit. Why hadn’t he stripped down to his T-shirt to dig around under his hood?

Because…that…that was something he never did in public.

He opened the back door and scrounged around in his bag. The only other clean shirt he had was one he wore when he worked out. With a ripped collar and arms, that sure as hell wouldn’t work for a business meeting.

Not if he wanted the tooling contract.

So he scrubbed at the arm of his shirt with a napkin and a piece of melting ice from a fast-food drink. And yeah, they were pretty much useless.

Possibly even worse, he was sitting here on the side of the road waiting for the boot company’s bookkeeper to come to his rescue, feeling like a cross between a pet dog, a teenager who’d run out of gas, and a charity case. Once more, he poked at the stain, embarrassment threading through him.

He set his teeth against the feeling. Screw it. The new owner of Prophecy Boot Company wasn’t looking for a model. She was looking for someone who could turn a plain piece of leather into a work of art. And that, he could do.

But only if Ms. Dulce de Leche didn’t drive up, take one look at him, and decide to leave him on the side of the road.

As soon as Greer hung up the phone, she snatched her purse from the old teacher’s desk where her dad once designed boots, not allowing her fingers to linger over the scarred wood. Because it was a poor substitute for what she really wanted, the chance to hold his gnarled hand one more time.

Instead of mulling over things she couldn’t change, she rushed out Prophecy Boot Company’s front door, the strap of harness bells clanging against the glass.

Delaney had been dancing a jig for the past week at the prospect of meeting this final leather tooler, so Greer wouldn’t let a little thing like car trouble derail the meeting.

One quick stop a couple doors down Guadalupe Street at Shorty’s Auto Parts, and she had a fan belt in her possession.

With a heavy foot on her classic Datsun 240Z’s gas pedal, she was good to her word, pulling nose to nose with a sad-looking sedan in twenty-seven minutes. But the man leaning against the car, with his tan skin and shaved head, could never be called sad-looking.

Disgruntled, sorta.

Intimidating, uh-huh.

Sexy, oh Lord have mercy.

She’d imagined Alex Villanueva as a forty-something guy with a wife, a few kids, and a dad bod. Hands down, she’d been wrong about the bod.

It doesn’t matter if you were wrong about the rest of it too because this is business. Prophecy Boot Company business.

Regardless, she grabbed the fan belt from her passenger seat and got out of her car, her heartbeat thumping faster and her legs moving slower than normal.

She waved the fan belt in greeting and weaved around a bright orange patch of Indian paintbrush in the ditch.

“Hi, I’m Greer Maddox. We spoke on the phone a few minutes ago. ”

He eased away from the front quarter panel and stood spread legged in front of the car but didn’t greet her with the welcoming smile she’d expected. Instead, his dark eyes cataloged her as if he suspected she’d pulled over to rip off his hubcaps.

All three of them.

“I figured as much,” he said, his tone as dry as the hay Henry McCormick fed his goats. “Since there’s no such thing as a fan belt fairy.”

Remembering something her dad had often said, she throttled her initial impulse to whack the man with the fan belt. Never kick a man in his family jewels or his pride, because they’re both easily bruised.

So she kept her smile in place and joined him under the shade of his car’s hood. Sure enough, when she handed over the car part, she noticed a pink undertone around his cheekbones. This was a man who didn’t like being caught at a disadvantage. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“And I could’ve handled it myself.”

“I passed the nearest gas station about three miles back,” she said, keeping her tone light. “And not one of those full-service ones. I doubt they would’ve had your part.”

He blew out a breath and turned toward her, his expression a pained attempt at appearing pleasant. “Maybe we should start over here. Hi, I’m Alex Villanueva.”

“I figured as much.” She didn’t bother to camouflage her grin. “Since, as the fan belt fairy, I don’t normally rescue ungrateful men from the side of the highway.”

“Deserved that.”

“Need help with the belt?”

“I’ve got it.”

“You know you need a fifteen-millimeter wrench, right?” Per Shorty’s instructions to her.

He reached into his back pocket and produced the needed tool. “I’m an expert.”

The way his car looked, he wasn’t an expert mechanic, but Greer didn’t care about that. All she cared about was his expertise at leather tooling.

At least that was what she told herself as she stuck around to watch the darkly delicious Alex Villanueva fix his fan belt.