Chapter 7
There are onlytwo things that I’ll ever splurge on: my yearly trip somewhere tropical and my hair.
I’ve gone on a yearly trip since I moved out at eighteen. Chalk it up to hardly ever leaving Cherry Peak when I was growing up due to my family’s penny-pinching ways, but the moment I could break free, I was gone. Where there’s sun and unlimited alcoholic beverages, I’m there. For seven to ten days every year, I get to live a life so different from the one I have here. I get to be the full, unrestricted version of myself somewhere nobody can judge me for it. Or where they still can, but I just don’t give a single flying shit if they do.
When it comes to my hair, I can never seem to stick with one style for too long. Short, long, purple, or red. Luckily, my best friend happens to be an incredible hairdresser and loves me enough to let me stop in for house calls before work on a Monday morning to change it up.
There’s hardly a reason behind why I wake up on random mornings with the craving for something new, but I’m not about to change my life now. I’m twenty-six years too late for that.
The sun is just peeking its head over the ranch house when I pull into Steele Ranch and wiggle my fingers at the men bustling about in dirty jeans and cowboy boots. Wade Steele tips his chin at me from the back of his horse, Kip, as I pass them at the stable and come up on the guest house.
Unlike yesterday, the lights are on, and a sleek black car is parked out front beside a beat-up Ford. I laugh at the idea of Garrison Beckett driving that piece of shit.
Having grown up in Cherry Peak, I spent plenty of time at Steele Ranch long before Anna came into the picture and have seen that truck sputter along these roads for decades. Brody’s probably spent a thousand hours beneath the hood of that thing to keep it running during his breaks back home.
I take my foot off the gas in my car, slowing down when Garrison steps out of the house. He takes a long look at the black sedan before glaring at the truck like it’s single-handedly responsible for everything that’s ever gone wrong in his life. He’s not wearing wrinkle-free dress pants and a button-up today, nor are there shiny leather shoes on his feet. No, I nearly bite my tongue off to keep from panting as I take in the tight jeans and grey T-shirt with an old peewee hockey team logo stamped over the chest. He might be tall and lean, but his thighs eat up those jeans, and I hate myself a little for hoping he’ll turn around and flash me a peek at his ass. His hair is disheveled in the way that usually means he’s run his fingers through it too many times. I bet he’d look good doing that, and I hate him a little bit for that too.
The slam of a door has me jumping in my seat, snapping my head to the side to see Garrison now inside the truck, his hands curled over the top of the steering wheel. When the engine turns over, it’s so loud that it grabs the attention of a few of the ranch hands nearby. I roll my lip between my teeth, deciding against bailing before I get to see if he’s really about to drive that old thing.
The first time it rolls forward, it doesn’t make it further than a foot before it stalls. And the second time, it doesn’t even make it that far. His frustration is obvious, even from here.
I don’t know what it is about seeing his head fall heavily against the headrest, the truck continuing to idle, plumes of black smoke filling the air behind it, that has me shifting my car into park and stepping out. He doesn’t look up as I jog toward the truck, flipping my middle finger at everyone who’s crowded around snickering at Garrison.
“Get back to work before Wade sees you slacking off,” I threaten when they continue to stand and ogle him.
Garrison may be a dick, but nobody deserves to be laughed at. I know what it feels like to listen to people you don’t know judge you, and it feels like absolute shit. It doesn’t matter who you are or how thick your bravado is. It still burns.
“Come on, Poppy! Have a bit of fun with us.”
“Wade might come join us, not give us shit!”
The comments keep coming, one after the other. Wade might like to pull a few pranks here and there, but he’s no bully.
“Do you really want to try and find out whether you’re right about that?” I shoot back, my cheeks flaming red-hot.
The crowd of men quiets for a beat before Johnny, one of the youngest of the ranch hands and a good friend, pushes his way to the front and speaks up.
“If you wanna have a go at the guy, you should do it with your fists and not your loose lips. I think he deserves a fair shot around here.”
Pride runs rampant through me as I give him a nod and then turn back to Garrison. This time, I’m met with his dark stare. Even through the windshield, I can see the concoction of emotions blazing through his eyes. I only offer him a slight smile and carry on toward him.
He can be pissed off that I defended him. It doesn’t make an ounce of a difference to me. I would have done it for anybody. Sir Douchealot or not.
Garrison tracks me with that heavy stare as I walk toward him, not stopping until I reach the truck door. I set my hands on my hips and wait silently as he cranks down the window.
It takes too much effort not to gasp at how beautiful he is this close up. His thick brows are drawn harshly together over eyes that can’t decide if they want to be green or brown. The mix of colour is intriguing, the kind of mystery you want to chew on until you figure out.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low and dull.
I clear my throat and set my hands on the upper rim of the window before leaning slightly against it to look inside the cab. “Is it giving you trouble?”
“I can’t drive it.”
That would explain it. “Shit. Want me to call Brody over? He’ll get it fixed up for you.”
I reach into the front pocket of my jeans for my phone but freeze when I feel warm, smooth fingers curve around my wrist, the tips of them overlapping.
“Brody can’t fix this problem,” he grinds out, and the demand for him to release me dies in my throat. “I can’t fucking drive stick.”
“Actually?” I blurt out.
He drops my wrist, and I yank my hand back to my body. “Do you think I’d be here right now making a fool out of myself if I did?”
“You could just say no. I’m not judging you. There’s no need to be so defensive,” I say tightly.
“My apologies.”
The corner of my mouth tilts. “Alright. Where are you heading to in this thing?”
“The shop. To Brody, I suppose.”
“You know mechanics?” I hope the shock I’m feeling isn’t obvious in my tone.
“No. But there was an . . . incident yesterday, and it turns out I’m not much of a help anywhere else. Wade ordered me to head to the shop this morning.”
“What kind of incident?”
He narrows his eyes on me, a warning to piss off with my questions, before he says, “I didn’t particularly want to take my rental car over these horrific roads again, but that seems to be my only option now.”
“I could take you to the shop. Teach you a couple things about driving stick while I’m at it,” I offer, my voice surprisingly shy.
He hides his surprise well, but not well enough. I watch it flick across his features before he’s scowling again, as closed off as ever. I don’t let it bother me. It doesn’t matter.
“Or not,” I add.
“What would you want in return?”
“Excuse me?”
“You want to do this for me, why? Surely you want something for it.”
I scoff in disbelief, a pit growing in my stomach. “What could I possibly want from you?”
“What wouldn’t you want?”
I grip the window hard before dropping my hand to my side and stepping back. He watches me closely, examining my every breath.
“Right then. Have a great day, Garrison Beckett.”
I’m grateful the gawking group of gossiping men has dissipated as I stalk back to my car, my blood boiling. Fuck that guy and his?—
“Are you trying to intimidate me by using my last name every possible chance you get?” he barks, the door creaking open.
I whip around and curl my lip, losing the hold on my frustration. “I was trying to help you!”
“I didn’t ask for your help!”
“Is that what you’re used to in your life back wherever it is you came from? Having to beg for help when you clearly need it? Expecting someone to demand something of you when you do ask for it?”
His nostrils flare, mouth sealing shut as he replicates my stance with his hands on his narrow waist. A power stance. One I’m sure has won him more than a thousand battles as a big, fancy CEO.
“For God’s sake, stop picking a fight with everyone over everything. This ranch is full of good people. Really, really good ones. The best I’ve ever met. So just cut it out already,” I say on an exhale.
“You don’t know me, Poppy.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
There’s no attempting to hide his following wince. Not when I’m watching him so intently. I revel at the glimpse of emotion, already itching for another.
“Clearly, I am out of my element here. I appreciate your offer. Truly,” he says, voice calmer than I’ve heard it thus far, but that isn’t saying much.
I nod. “Okay, so, do you want a lesson, or shall I leave you to figure it out on your own? I do have a hair appointment to make sometime today.”
Realization fills his gaze. “Ah, so that’s what Anna does.”
“You didn’t know that? Aren’t you supposed to know everything about everyone?”
“Most of the time. There seem to be a few things in this town I don’t know about still.”
I sense a double meaning in that sentence somewhere, but I don’t allow myself so much as a second to start searching for it. “So, yes or no?”
He lifts an arm, bicep straining as he gestures to the truck. “Have at it. It seems I have nothing to lose.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You still have your arrogance. Unless you’re planning on doing us all a favour and tossing it out the window while we’re at it?”
He snorts a laugh, and I fight back a smile. “Not anytime soon.”
“It was worth a shot.”
“I thought you were in a rush?” he says, starting my way, our height difference becomes alarmingly obvious the closer her gets.
By the time we’re close enough for me to spy a rogue freckle on the right side of his throat, I’m forced to tip my head back to meet his stare.
Again, that wicked sense of attraction blooms to life low in my gut before I can shut off that part of my brain. My nipples pebble inside the pretty purple bra I chose this morning, aggravating me beyond belief. Not even the self-righteous lift of his brow as he once again waits for my reply like an impatient prick manages to stifle my alarming sexual interest in him.
Offering to help with this was such a stupid mistake.
With an audible groan, I spin on my heels and all but dive into the driver’s side of the truck, not giving a fuck that he releases a surprised laugh behind me.
I have dildos that are less dickish than Garrison Beckett.
If I repeat it five million times over, maybe I’ll be able to grow back my missing sense of self-preservation.