Chapter 7 Rachel
Rachel
The next morning, I discovered that Clayton had made some plans. He was a sneaky fucker. No knight in shining armor here.
“I’m sitting in on Mrs. Andretti’s claim today so I might as well do all of them,” he announced over breakfast, already dressed in work boots and a clean flannel. “I’ll be at Winslow Harrison’s claim. And Hudson Woods’. And Angela Patterson’s, too. She’s friends with my buddy Nolan Harper.”
I set down my coffee mug, tension coiling in my shoulders. How could he know who I was visiting today?
The rumor mill in this town must be working overtime because my laptop was locked with an encrypted password so complex that this simple mountain man couldn’t have cracked it.
“All of them?” I asked, a certain brusqueness entering my tone that I reserved for when I had to deal with contractors on the job.
“All of them,” he rumbled back, his eyes sparking fire.
I’d spent last night in this man’s bed trying not to slip onto his cock. I should have known better.
Clayton had probably just been using his sex appeal to try to get what he wanted.
He’d had this planned all along!
Contractors had every legal right to attend claim inspections. I knew that.
But in my experience, their presence usually meant an hour of butting heads while they tried to spin everything in favor of the homeowner. The worst ones would try to distract me from the obvious fraud issues on the site.
My relationship with men who swung hammers was contentious at best.
Clayton, despite his mountain man good looks, was inserting himself directly into the middle of my job, and I didn’t appreciate it one bit.
“Fine,” I said tightly. “But you stay out of my way during the assessments.”
“Wouldn’t dream of getting in your way, ma’am.” His tone was mild, but I caught the glint in his eye that suggested he absolutely would dream of it.
Then he said, “But the roads are muddy, so we should take my truck. That way I won’t need to save you later on today when you get stuck in the mud.”
There was a certain logic to that.
Which was how I ended up pressed thigh-to-thigh with Clayton Armstrong in the cab of his pickup truck, bouncing along muddy mountain roads while his two dogs claimed the window seat like they owned it.
“Scoot over,” I’d said when I first tried to climb, but Nuts and Bolts had just stared at me with their big brown eyes, completely unmoved.
“They like the window,” Clayton had said, as if that explained everything. “You’ll have to sit in the middle.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked, dropping my professionalism for a moment. But the man had me so flustered it was hard to stay in control.
“Talk to the dogs, not me. They make the rules.”
I’d sighed.
The middle. Where the bench seat meant there was nowhere for my leg to go except pressed against his, our bodies swaying together with every bump and turn in the road.
He’d motioned for me to get in on the driver’s side, so I did. Then I’d slid into the middle, trapped between a surly mountain man and two drooling mutts who were hogging the window seat.
Neither of us mentioned it or shifted away. Not that there was far for either of us to go.
And now, here we were, stuck together again.
I couldn’t seem to get away from this man, and the way my pulse was fluttering in my throat, I knew I didn’t want to get away.
I stared out the windshield and tried to focus on the job ahead, but my mind kept wandering into dangerous territory.
How could I want a man like him?
He was everything I’d worked so hard to get away from.
A good old boy content with small-town life, doing nothing with his ambitions except fixing other people’s houses and renting out spare rooms for cash.
But then a sharp, unwelcome thought intruded into my mind.
If my life was so good, why didn’t I feel more satisfied?
I spent ninety percent of my existence in hotel rooms. I lived out of a suitcase, my entire world contained in matching luggage sets and color-coded folders.
Sure, there was a studio apartment waiting for me in Tucson, and a handful of friends I saw once or twice a month when I was actually in town. But was that really better than what Clayton had?
I thought about his house, small and shabby and patched together from salvaged materials. It should have felt like a dump. Instead, it felt like a home… warm and lived-in in a way my sterile apartment never could.
And he had friends… and family.
A whole life here on this mountain. I’d overheard him chatting with his mom this morning, just like he’d done yesterday morning. In contrast, I hadn’t called my parents in over a month. I mentally added it to my to-do list.
I’d left my hometown in such a hurry that I’d never looked back to see what I should miss.
I could be a better daughter. I could visit more often. I could call.
Make an effort.
My hand slipped over without conscious thought, coming to rest on the dog closest to me. His fur was soft and warm under my palm, and he leaned into the touch with a contented sigh.
“Which one is this again?” I asked. “I still can’t tell them apart.”
Clayton glanced over, and something softened in his expression. “That’s Nuts. Looks like he’s fond of you.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “He doesn’t usually drool for the enemy.”
I snorted before I could stop myself. “I’m the enemy?”
“Yes, ma’am.” But there was a playful warmth in his voice that made my stomach flip. “Public enemy number one. You do know that claims adjusters are like the Darth Vader of this world, right?”
“No, we’re not. Our job is just to make sure things are done the right way.”
But it shook me. Even though he had that cute little smile on his lips, and his eyes were sparkling with mirth, I had to wonder if that’s what he really thought of me?
There were parts of my job that I didn’t like. But I’d always pushed that aside. Everyone had to do things they didn’t want to do. Managers had to put employees on probation. HR had to fire them sometimes.
Hell, even customer service reps had to say no to the customers when they asked for something outside of policy. Just like Shelly had the other night.
We all had rules to follow. That didn’t make us bad, right?
A tiny doubt lodged itself in my heart, and I didn’t like that.
No, I didn’t like that one bit.
The first property was a small cabin with obvious roof damage, shingles scattered across the muddy yard. I climbed out of the truck and immediately felt my heels sink into the soft ground.
Clayton was beside me before I’d taken three steps, his presence solid and warm despite the cold drizzle.
The place evidently belonged to one of his friends, Winslow Harrison.
“Watch your step,” he said as he handed me an umbrella. “Ground’s slick.”
“Thanks, but I’ve done this before.” I pulled out my tablet and started documenting, picking my way carefully around the property while the homeowner, Winslow Harrison, a mountain man around Clayton’s age, hovered nearby.
Did they grow all the men hot around here?
Ridiculous.
Until I’d set foot on this mountain, I hadn’t known I had a thing for older men. Clayton was probably five or ten years my senior, and there was something about his warm steadiness that made me want to sink into his arms and let him take care of me for the rest of my life.
The roof damage at Winslow’s place was legitimate.
I could see that immediately. There were the distinctive pockmarks of hail impact, coupled with cracked and missing shingles and dented gutters.
I made notes, took photographs, and asked my standard questions while Clayton stood off to the side with his arms crossed, watching me work.
While I was climbing down from a small rise near the back of the property, my heel hit a patch of wet leaves and my feet went out from under me.
Strong hands caught my waist before I could fall, fingers gripping firmly through my blazer as Clayton steadied me against his chest.
“You shouldn’t wear those heels out here,” he growled near my ear. “You’re going to break your neck. Don’t you have any sense in you, woman?”
I should have pulled away, or maybe just explained why I was wearing high heels in the mud.
Instead, I stood there, acutely aware of the heat of his palms on me, willing him to let them wander.
His hands stayed on my waist a second longer than necessary. Then two seconds. Three.
My breath caught, and I felt the slight tightening of his fingers before he released me and stepped back.
“Careful,” was all he said, but his voice had gone rough.
Real trouble didn’t start until we were at the third property, Angela Patterson’s place.
She was an elderly woman who was evidently friends with his friend, Nolan Harper.
It was like everyone knew each other out here. And took care of each other, too.
That was one part of small-town life I did miss.
Right now, I didn’t have anyone who would take care of me if a disaster happened to me.
Normally that didn’t bother me, but I could see how when I got to be Mrs. Patterson’s age it would be nice to have sweet, strong men helping to keep a roof over my head.
One thing had become obvious today. Clayton was a good man, evident by the tray of cookies Mrs. Patterson had delivered to him, loudly announcing that she wished she could pay him something more than this for fixing her roof.
He’d awe-shucked his way through the conversation, giving me a side glance along the way as though he didn’t want me knowing he was the kind of man who would do a four thousand dollar job for free if it involved helping a poor, old woman out.
It made it harder to keep my professional distance, knowing this about him.
Especially when he’d insisted I eat one of her cookies, still fresh from the oven.
The taste had brought me straight back to childhood. They were simple peanut butter cookies with a fork pressed in the center, just like my momma used to make. I hadn’t tasted anything that good in years.
Oh, this man was getting under my skin. He was going to turn me into a regular bleeding heart if he kept this up.
I needed to get a closer look at some damage near the roofline, and the short ladder leaning against the side of the house was the only way up. Clayton positioned himself behind me as I climbed, close enough that I could feel his presence behind me.
“I’m spotting you,” he said when I glanced back. “These rungs are wet.”
He wasn’t wrong. The metal was slick under my hands, and I climbed carefully, documenting the damage with my phone camera while trying not to think about the man standing three feet below me.
Coming down was even worse.
My heel missed a rung, slipping on the wet metal, and I stumbled backward with a startled gasp, my glasses flying off my face.
Clayton was there to catch me, his chest solid against my back, his hands steadying me in his embrace.
I could feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, steady but faster than it should have been.
His fingers flexed against my hips, pulling me closer and refusing to let go.
“You need to be careful. No more ladders today.” His voice was a low rumble that I felt more than heard.
“Yeah,” the word came out breathless. “Okay.”
“And you can’t wear these heels again. I forbid it,” he rumbled. “You’re going to break your neck out here.”
I sighed and told him the truth. “These are the only shoes I have right now.”
“Well, tomorrow we’re going to buy you a proper pair of work boots. This is ridiculous.”
Neither of us moved for another long moment.
Then, slowly he stepped back, and his hands fell away.
We pretended nothing had happened while I hunted for my glasses on the ground, but I caught Angela Patterson watching us with knowing eyes.
Women like her always knew.
I feared the local rumor mill would be buzzing about us by sunset.