Chapter 8
EIGHT
AMELIA
I hope this van is ready soon. Because if I don’t get on the road and find someone to cure this raging appetite of sexual destruction with, I’m liable to corner Weston Grady and try to change his mind on waiting until my last night by pleading a case with lots of physical evidence.
Begging for sex really isn’t my vibe, though, and if his brother is his holdup, I’m not about to get in between him and Oscar the Grouch.
Seriously, if this garage were going to be named after any Sesame Street character, that one sure seems pretty spot-on if you ask me.
“Parts are in,” less fuzzy, grumpier Oscar says to me, plopping a bag of small metal pieces down on the workbench beside him.
One step closer to being back on the road.
That thought should make me happy. So why do my insides feel chilled and hollow?
I give him all the enthusiasm I can muster in a lackluster little cheer, arms over my head, pulling my crop top dangerously high, but this man couldn’t be less interested in anyone that isn’t a tall bombshell in killer heels who goes by Rory, and he doesn’t even notice when I tug my shirt back down for modesty’s sake.
“So now?” I prompt him.
“Now we gotta get the tranny and the engine rebuilt, in between all this other shit .” Wyatt waves an arm around the garage, which somehow has even more vehicles in it than it did when mine arrived.
Labor costs for rebuilding a transmission and an engine. Just what I wanted to think about. Yay for me.
Regulating my voice to the approximate moisture level of sandpaper, I say, “Don’t give me too much hope now. Might give me a reason to live, and we wouldn’t want that.”
His eyes—so similar in color to Weston’s, so different in sentiment—float toward the ceiling, as close as he probably gets to rolling them.
“Hand over the razor blades, Wednesday Shortcake. Today’s not your day. Not on my watch.”
“Did you call me Wednesday Shortcake?”
“You’re half depressing, half irritatingly sunny. Could call you Strawberry Addams instead, I guess.”
That’s what I get for trying to find the bright side after the trauma I’ve been through. An amateur diagnosis of manic-depressive and suicidal by a mechanic with the emotional range of a carburetor. Hasn’t he ever heard of dark humor? It’s called coping, asshole.
“Or you could just call me Amelia?”
“Heeeeeey!” Weston’s upbeat voice booms through the garage, scattering Wyatt and I from an incredibly uncomfortable conversation. The only kind he and I have shared this past week and a half. Seriously struggling to see how these two men are related, but then again…look who I’m related to.
“Did you miss me?” he calls out, and I look up, hoping the surprise isn’t all over my face.
This man has proven he can see through even my most reliable masks, which is more than a little unsettling, but I didn’t expect to be called out like that. Like he knows he’s the bright spot in my day, these little glimpses I get of him in the evenings, when he’s working on his car and I’m finding excuses to hang around in the shop. My cheeks are probably heating from him calling me out so brazenly.
“Couldn’t sleep without you,” Wyatt responds, zero rise or fall in his pitch, which actually catches me off guard and I laugh. Like, a full belly laugh.
The shocked look on Weston’s face only makes it funnier, and soon even the hard line that is Wyatt’s mouth tilts up at one corner, which from my estimation means he’s basically pissing himself.
“I was talking to my car, but that’s good to know.” Weston’s eyes glow with the exchange—I’m guessing it’s one of the lightest they’ve had in recent memory—and I try to ignore the pang of desire that pulls low in my abdomen when I watch him light up.
Like I wasn’t already wanton enough before I got to Smoky Heights, unfulfilled for too many hormonal cycles on end, this man had to do and say the things he did in my van the other night. Leave me a mess on the bed, more puddle than woman by the time the door shut behind him, counting down to my last night in town.
And I have to say, I think my vibrator is just about sick of me after these last few days. It’s about ready to go on strike if it has to keep me close to satisfied for two more damn weeks.
I don’t think that thing was built for the kind of extreme demand I’ve been putting it through lately. Like taking a Prius off-roading.
Not sure tonight is going to have any other forecast in store for it, though, with how edible this man looks as he slides into the garage, tanned, golden, muscular forearms on display beneath that staple white tee of his, and those cargo pants. This pair looks clean, maybe they’re new even, but I don’t mind when he’s a little dirty. It suits him. Like he’s a man willing to get the job done, even if it leaves a mess behind.
Even his tan work boots add to his appeal. Walking the walk, not just talking the talk.
When he turns around, I get a peek of the tattoo that slips out of his right sleeve. Some mechanical parts, an assortment of cogs, on the back of his triceps. It just adds to the masculine appeal of him. Hell, if he was in front of me right now, I’d probably lean right in and take a whiff, no better than an animal, uncouth and needy, filling my lungs with that manly, woodsy scent that’s all Weston.
I have to fight the urge to cross my legs, squeeze my thighs and count down until I’m alone with my favorite little substitute again.
I’m better than this, right? Is my life so unfulfilling that I can’t even bear to be alone for this short time? Surely I can go a few months without a hookup?
Even if it feels like this is some celibacy challenge from the gods, and Adonis himself is the final boss I have to battle to reach the other side, where nirvana awaits.
I’m not sure it’d be worth it, honestly.
I think I’d take a night with Weston Grady over nirvana.
Weston and Wyatt dive into shop talk, going back and forth about something or other about a repair on a Mercury Sable (I didn’t know those were still in circulation) as I try to keep my mask in place while I reassure myself.
My plans are back on track. With the parts in, we’re just a couple weeks away from me being able to hit the road and find my next home port for a few days at a time, as usual.
Knowing that Weston and I will both give in as a parting gift to one another, before I leave town—well and truly not a local girl by any stretch of the definition—fair game (by both of our standards) for one, no-holds-barred night together.
Something tells me if I spend the night with Weston, the next unlucky fellow who gets to bed me will have impossibly large boots to fill. But, hey, at least I’ll have scratched that itch.
It’ll give me something to think about next time my partner of the evening isn’t exactly everything I wish he were, and I need some help to get over the finish line.
A gruff voice breaks through my daydreams. “Well, I got a daughter to get home to, and a wife who deserves one hell of a night from me.”
“What’s the occasion?” Weston asks.
Wyatt’s scruffy jaw twitches with the hint of a smile. “Eh, today’s a day that ends in Y. Don’t burn the place down, yeah, West?” He double taps the workbench with one open palm, and he heads off.
“Drink some electrolytes! I know you’re getting old, but it’ll help with the stamina!” Weston shouts after his brother.
Wyatt keeps striding toward his truck, one middle finger held high over his head as his only response, no shortage of swagger in his step.
These brothers do not have a confidence problem.
Weston turns back to me, traces of laughter still on his golden face as he takes me in. The chiseled jaw. Green eyes. Those laugh lines, and don’t get me started on the cheekbones. It’s all too much, I’m just a girl.
“Parts came in, huh?” he asks.
“That’s the word around town,” I confirm with a nod, still a little breathless from the sight of him.
“Hot gossip for this place,” he says with way too much gravitas. “I think news had spread to downtown by the time I left the flower shop. Ernie was telling everyone who would listen down by the hardware store. It’s probably all over the Heights Facebook group, and honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if the paparazzi came looking for you to get a piece of the story.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“When you become a local celebrity, will you sign one of the paparazzi photos for me before you go?”
The tilt of his plush mouth, the dimple that breaks out when he grins like that, the glint in his eye, they’re all so fucking dangerous. Worse than most predators, because he could trap me where others have failed. That charm of his is more lethal than weapons.
“Afraid I have some bad news for you on that front,” I say with a sigh.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“I might have to charge an awful lot for that photo. Enough to help me cover the cost of the repairs.”
He catches on immediately. “Boss not giving you extra work?” I filled him in on that situation the other night when we discussed damn near every topic under the moon and stars that didn’t involve my life before Van Gogh.
“He’s barely giving me work, period,” I respond, arms flapping at my sides in distress. “If anything, since I asked for a bigger workload, I’m pretty sure he’s cutting back on what he gives me. At this rate, I can barely afford my normal expenses, much less that huge bill Wyatt will be demanding payment on in a couple weeks.”
His mouth pulls to one side, but his eyes stay on me, deep in thought.
“Have you talked to Rory?”
“Plenty.”
“About work?”
“Does she need help with a coding project?”
He shakes his head. “Doubt it, but she does run the grant program. There’s loads of places hiring, maybe she could hook you up with a job somewhere here? She might try to pitch you on staying longer, taking a grant payout to settle down here or something like that, but just pretend it’s a timeshare seminar you have to sit through to get the cheap tickets to Disney World. Smile and nod, then walk away at the end with what you came for. That’s what I did.”
Take a normal job? Have regular hours, with a real, live, in-person boss, and somewhere I have to show up every day?
Forget the fact I’d rather peel my own fingernails off than submit my ID willingly to a stranger to have them dig around into my identity. A nine-to-five would mean—excuse me while I gag—waking up early enough to be somewhere by nine. It’s literally in the title.
I rarely wake before the sun is winding down for the day. Maybe it’s all the darkness hiding within me, but I tend to do my best work at night.
He must read the look on my face and discern the answer without the need for words, because he puts his hand to his chin and keeps thinking.
“Okay, what if…” Weston lets the mystery build as he steps around the car that’s separating us and walks closer. I find myself turning to face him as he moves, like a daisy staying in the rays of his light.
“What if you spit out whatever idea you had?” I ask with a little more sass than I’m really feeling, because a girl can’t give away all her secrets, or look too soft, the way I probably do when I’m under his spell.
“Easy, darlin’. I’m gettin’ there.”
He settles in, ass against the door of the muscle car behind him, thick arms crossed over his broad chest, and stares me down as rain starts to pour outside the open bays at the entrance of the garage, filling the shop with the fresh scent.
“What if I talk to Wyatt about helping out on your rebuild. I’m already here at night working on my car anyway. Might as well do a good deed and work on yours. The Charger has been waiting all these years for me, it can hang tight a little longer.”
My jaw practically unhinges. “You would do that?”
He lifts a shoulder casually. “I’m sure I’d need his help on some of it, his oversight probably on most of it. But I’d come cheaper than Wyatt. Free ninety-nine for my labor, if he agrees to it. And he’s got so much to do anyway, he’d probably welcome the load off his plate.”
I’m nodding vigorously before I’ve even thought it over, the ends of my hair bouncing across my shoulders with the movement. “That would be amazing , Weston. Seriously.”
“I’d need you to realize I’m not exactly in my element with this. It’s been a while since I’ve done a project like this, and you’ll have to bear with me if it takes a little longer than he would.”
“Are you seriously offering to do my repairs for free, but telling me I’d have to be just a little bit patient for them?” I make the motion for little with my forefinger and thumb.
“I can’t promise there won’t be any charge, but it should cut down significantly on Wyatt’s labor charges, sure.”
This man defies all logic, all I’ve come to know about what to expect from men. His offer is so insanely kind, but he owes me nothing and keeps doing me favors. It’s too much. I refuse to be a charity case any more than I already have been.
“Weston, you can’t. I’m not your problem to solve.”
“I can’t what? Be nice? Be a good neighbor? I can tell that wherever you came from, whatever history you have that I don’t know about… I know it left you jaded and sure that the world is full of dicks. And it is, but that’s not all there is out there. Especially around here. People in Smoky Heights look out for one another. Help each other. Yeah, sure, they snoop and overstep, and they talk—God, do they talk—but this isn’t some ulterior motive from me. I like working on motors. I like you. I don’t mind helping you get back on your feet.”
His lips tilt up in that wholesome way of his that makes me certain he’s one of a kind. His kindness, sincerity, the way he gives himself wherever it will help out, even if that’s just a smile, he’s too good for this world. Too good for my tainted self.
Weston keeps talking, his low voice rumbling in a way that warms something low in my belly as he goes in for the kill shot. “It’s okay to say yes when you need help sometimes, darlin’. Doesn’t make you weak.”
My mouth opens and closes a few times, not sure how to even respond to that. I’ve been alone since I became an adult. Help is a foreign concept to me. Being seen as weak or incapable of handling my own shit is something I never want to live through again.
Breathing out through my nose, words slip out of my mouth before my brain gets to filter them. “You have to let me repay you somehow. I’m not a charity case.”
That didn’t sound as appreciative as it could’ve, if we’re nitpicking, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Those green eyes of his, like fresh grass after the last frost, damn near sparkle as they watch me.
“I’d be open to some sort of barter system,” he throws out playfully.
“Barter?” I echo. “What the heck do I have that you could want?”
His eyes move rapidly across the shop, intentionally away from me, and I realize that’s a stupid question. There’s something he desperately wants from me. Same thing I want from him. But he’s not asking for me to pay him with sex.
Lifting a shoulder again, he says, “You could help me paint if you’re not busy with programming.”
“Like, tell you true crime stories while you work to keep you entertained?”
“More like you paint with me, so we get the jobs done faster and I can come here and work on your van.”
“Yeah, listen, I’m really not much of a painter. I might be good with detail-oriented work on a keyboard, but having to cut in ceilings and baseboards sounds like literal torture to me.”
“Says the one who listens to gruesome podcasts detailing actual torture. Is that what Binx talks about? Victims who were made to paint trim before their systems just quit and they flatlined from the sheer horror of it all?”
“Binx?” I can barely say the word through my uncontrollable laughter.
“Isn’t that her name?”
“She’s not a cat from a 90s Halloween movie. Her name is Jynx.”
“Same fucking difference.”
“It is not!”
He leans in closer to me, ass still resting against the car, but face now directly in front of mine.
“That is the exact same, and there is no way you’re being serious right now. You know that’s the same, right?”
I place my palm against his face, dig my fingers into his cheeks and forehead, and shove him back with a laugh.
“Rule number one if you want me to paint with you, is you don’t disrespect Jynx.”
He stands straight, holding one hand up like a damn Boy Scout. “I solemnly swear to respect the sanctity of the high holiness of true crime podcasts, all that is gory, her royal highness, Jynx.”
“That’s a start,” I say, nose in the air.
“What are the other terms of the barter?” he asks, brows raised in amusement.
“You do all the trim, all the cutting in, and all I do is the rolly thing on the big surfaces.” I make the motion, like I have a roller in my hand.
“This might not actually go any faster then,” Weston groans.
“Those are my terms, take it or leave it,” I say, arms extended out to my side.
“And here I thought I was doing you a favor,” he grumbles, lips still twitched upward.
“May this be a valuable life lesson for you. Being a good person comes with a heavy cost.”
“Is this the only cost then? Doing the shittiest parts of the job to be graced with your presence while I do it?”
I wiggle my head side to side, weighing over the final term I’d like to barter.
“There is one more thing,” I say delicately.
“Here we go,” he says, with absolutely no acidity, like he’s gearing up for a joyride. I half expect him to rub his hands together, but he must have more self-discipline than Wyatt seems to think, and he holds himself back.
I let out a sigh, laying it on thick as I tilt my head to one side. “I do think it would be a slightly unfair working environment considering every day I show up on the job, you’ll know exactly what I have going on beneath this,” I gesture to my shirt. “And I’ll still be wondering what’s going on under that.” My head inclines toward his body with meaning.
He gets a knowing glint in his eyes and nods at me, faux seriousness in the motion.
“That would be a drastically unfair advantage, I agree.”
Nodding, I fold my arms over my chest expectantly and wait.
“Any special requests?” he asks me.
“I don’t need rose petals and candlelight, if that’s what you mean. It’s just, since you offered the other night… I can’t stop wondering. Put me out of my misery, West.”
His lips twitch, but he tries to stay deadpan. “I just didn’t know if you’d rather see him… ready to go, shall we say?”
“Sure, if the offer’s on the table. It’ll be a lot easier to get off to the thought when I can picture him hard, rather than dangling in elephant trunk mode.”
Weston huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Not holding back, are you, darlin’?”
“What, like you’re not thinking of my tits every night?”
His lips tilt up in a devilish grin. Caught him.
“I’m just leveling the playing field. Filling up my spank bank to match yours. So how does this work?” I ask. “Is this just an on-demand thing, we just place the order, wait a few minutes, and he’ll be good to go?”
“It won’t take a few minutes,” he says, eyes zeroing in on my body. “Shit, I have to work not to be hard around you, Amelia.”
I didn’t think there was a breeze today, but a chill sweeps my body like there was, and I feel my nipples perk up to attention beneath the phantom touch. His eyes don’t miss it, heating at the visual, and I watch his hands drift to the front of his pants.
“Matter of fact, he’s good to go.”
Fixated, my eyes don’t move from his hands on his fly, even if my tongue might have a mind of its own as it sweeps my lower lip eagerly.
“And to clarify, after this, we have a deal, right darlin’?”
“Yep,” I promise. “After this, I’m all yours.”
Those words ring out through the shop, and I hear how it sounded.
“For painting. While you’re fixing my van, I mean.” Never mind that it feels like he’s already sneaked into a place within me no one else has managed to find in a long, long time.
This might be the worst idea I’ve ever had—aside from the reason my life turned out this way in the first place. To keep pushing the boundaries when it comes to flirting with this man. To follow his lead and then take it two steps farther.
We both might be masters of the good time, not a long time mentality, but letting this crush fester and evolve into anything more than just that while we still have weeks to spend together, counting down until we can both get our fill can’t be a recipe for anything good.
But when his pants are finally unzipped and his hand slides in the front of his dark underwear and comes back out with the largest handful I’ve ever seen, I’ve forgotten any and all reasons why this wasn’t the best damn idea I’ve ever had.
Long, thick, and throbbing with a magnetism all its own, I’m pretty sure Weston Grady’s cock just became my newest obsession.
And when he tucks it away with nothing but a cocky, boyish wink in my direction, he knows it.
My last night in town can’t come soon enough.
Transfixed. I’ve become one-track minded ever since that glimpse that was more than I expected, yet nowhere near enough. My poor vibrator has no hope of living up to the fantasies going on in my head after last night.
“Yeah, just like that,” Weston praises me. “Keep going until it’s soaked, darlin’, mmhmm.”
My core clenches and flutters.
“You might have to use your hand, pump your fist over it and make sure it’s really coated before you begin. Just put on some protection first.”
My head turns to the right until I’m staring him down. “You do realize what that sounds like, don’t you?”
“Like I’m teaching you to paint with a roller?”
“Sure. That’s all it sounds like.”
Fitting a glove over my hand, I rub the paint into the fuzzy roller like Weston instructed.
“Fuck, you’re a natural,” he croons.
Now he’s just playing mean. Good thing I know how to hit below the belt too.
“Yeah?”
I moan far too sensually for what the task at hand calls for, bringing the roller up to the first wall and pressing it against the flat surface. The sound of moistness and friction ricochets throughout the empty suite.
“Like that?” My tone is straight out of a porno from the seventies, completely overdone just to prove my point. “Or should I go… harder ?”
I begin rolling the brush, the wet noises it’s making lewd when paired with the exchange we just shared, the sex dripping from my voice.
Weston stares at me, eyes hard as I keep the show going.
“Mmmm, it’s soaked. Are you watching it drip?”
I make an exaggerated noise of pleasure, one I’ve never actually made in bed before, because no woman really sounds like that when she’s enjoying herself.
“Sorry to interrupt,” comes an amused, throaty voice, and I freeze in place, roller to the wall, eyes on Weston, pleading for him to save me. “Didn’t mean to stop what you were doing, just passing through, don’t mind me.”
“Hey Lex,” Weston says easily, waving at the woman walking through the empty business we’re painting that is clearly not, in fact, empty.
“Hey West,” she calls back just as casually.
“Have you met Amelia yet?”
“The pleasure is all mine,” the woman says, laughter building in her throat.
I give in, placing the roller back in the paint tray and turning to face her, wiping my hands on my shorts with a nervous laugh. “That’s funny,” I tell her. “Because of the noises, and the…yeah.”
Weston crosses his arms over his chest and watches me, practically giddy in his silence, watching me dig my way out of this one.
“This, uh, this could be pretty awkward,” I try again. “But would you believe me if I said he started it?”
The woman—at least ten years older, a half a foot taller, and a few dozen pounds heavier than me, with wild brunette hair framing her face and the kind of innate self-confidence I envy—watches on with a sparkle in her eye.
“Yeah, that wouldn’t surprise me. Shit-stirrer that he is.”
My heartbeat lowers from my throat back down toward my chest, and the pounding softens to a less deafening roar in my ears.
“Amelia.” I give her a little wave.
“Alexis.” She gives me a nod with her chin in return.
“This is Rory’s older sister,” Weston explains.
I grab the open can of Alani on the floor by my feet and throw back a swig for courage.
“He’s my little sister’s husband’s little brother,” she says back.
“A vivid family tree,” I reply, still feeling like she walked in on something she shouldn’t have and unable to shake the embarrassment.
“Damn, the air’s so thick in here you could cut it with a machete.”
“I don’t think that’s a saying, Lex,” West says, smiling at her.
“I dunno what kind of pent-up tension the two of you have going that I clearly stepped into, but I’m not gonna run and tattle about your little porn-off to Wyatt, if that’s what you’re worried about. He doesn’t scare me, and honestly, we could use another chick with balls in the Heights. More power to ya.” She holds a fist up, careful not to spill her Diet Coke in the other hand.
A slight smile makes its way onto my face once more, and I steal a glance at Weston before giving the newcomer my attention again.
Her guttural voice is so sure of herself, I want to take notes when she speaks again. “I just wanted to introduce myself. Rory told me you’re gonna be in town for a bit longer, and I thought I’d take the chance to invite you out for a girl’s night. If the Gradys have been your only company since arriving, you’re probably overdue for some normal company.”
A toothy grin and a wink tell me it’s all in good fun, and she pulls an awkward smile out of me too.
“My best friend Gracie is the hairstylist at the salon just there,” she points out the plate glass windows to another storefront across the street, “and I work at the grocery store just up the road. We try to go out at least once a week, and sometimes I even get Rory to go with us too. You’re welcome to come with us Friday night, if you’d like.”
She pops her gum and takes a sip from the can to give me a second to respond, but I’m speechless. It doesn’t phase her.
“Not to put you on the spot. Just tell West to text me if you want a ride, I’ll come grab ya.”
Stunned, I stare at her for a moment too long to be a normal reaction, until Weston speaks up for me. “Thanks for stopping by, Alexis. It was a real…pleasure.” His words are still laced with humor, and it’s clear he’ll be laughing in my face about this all afternoon.
“Thanks,” I remember to say a bit too late.
“Hope you two…have fun,” she says with an exaggerated wink, and leaves us to it.
It’s weird that I’m in shock, unable to form a sentence like a twenty-something woman should be able to do. I know it is.
It’s just that I don’t know what to do with myself, or how to respond like a socialized human being.
I think that’s the closest thing to a friend I’ve made since the day my life ended when I was twelve.
“Okay, if Weston doesn’t fuck you soon, I think I will.” Lexi’s gravelly voice is naturally sultry enough that I almost think she’s being serious, but then her grin comes out and I realize she’s not into me, she’s just complimenting me in her own way.
Her warm brown eyes travel over my outfit—the one pair of jeans I have to my name, the ass-kicking combat boots I couldn’t live without, and one of my staple crop tops, my messy waves and bangs, the extra eyeliner I put on tonight—and I feel like the Amelia I wish I were when I see the approval in her gaze. Like she recognizes the fire inside of me that I try so hard to keep alight, and it burns brighter by her side.
So it seems my nerves were unnecessary. There’s something easy about Lexi, there’s no pretenses with her. Her best friend Gracie is exactly what I’d imagine a sweet Southern woman to be. And being around the two of them, somehow I don’t overthink my response. I just let it fly.
Biting down on my lower lip, my eyes rove over Lexi’s body right back. Curves hugged in denim, hair wild and curly, the girl is a stunner, and I let my eyes tell her so.
But then I sigh, and my mouth says, “Sorry, but you just don’t have his dick, and that’s really high on my list.”
Lexi guffaws, doubling over in a laugh that bisects the crowd around us. So uninhibited, I crave the lack of restraint she shows. It’s not even a thought for her, I’d bet. Keeping parts of herself tucked away and hidden. Not letting others see anything beyond the surface so carefully curated.
And for tonight? I think I can do just that.
A night off, just one evening to enjoy where I am rather than remind myself not to get too attached. It’s a novelty to me, to be spending a night with other women. Anyone else, period, who I haven’t picked up in a bar for forty-five minutes of something you could almost call fun.
Though the bar we’re at tonight, Smoky Suds, looks like a hell of a place to find someone if I were just drifting through. Southern men packed in from barnwood wall to barnwood wall, TVs mounted up high, country music playing overhead, and a pool table and some dart boards on the far end of the single room that makes this place up.
I wonder if Weston would be here, if he weren’t busy working on my van. If he’d be at the square bar in the center of the room, flirting with a tall blonde who looks like the perfect match, the Barbie to his Ken.
Even though it has no right to, an acidic streak of jealousy shoots through my stomach and up into my throat. The taste needs to be washed away, and I forge a path through the growing crowd straight to the probably once-shiny wooden counter at the bar. It’s worn down, patchy in places now, like it’s seen better days. Haven’t we all?
Standing, waiting to be noticed, the counter barely up to my tits, Lexi and Gracie catch up with me in a couple of strides. Perks of being tall women, I guess.
“You can’t just leave it at that.” Lexi’s jaw is set, eyes fierce.
“You’re going to have to tell us everything. I have to know if the rumors are true,” Gracie gushes. “I’m not saying I regret marrying the first man I ever slept with, but a girl does wonder what’s behind the other tent flaps in this town, if you know what I mean.”
My head tilts to the side and Lexi’s mouth flies open immediately.
“Gracie, that wasn’t even the slightest bit subtle. Just say it. You want to know about Weston’s dick. Yeah, babe, we all do. No need to be shy about it. I think Amelia is the only one who wants to know more than you do at this point.”
Gracie blushes, giggling into her shoulder, and I think she really is struggling to meet either of us in the eye. Surprising, with how forward and unapologetically open her best friend is, for her to be so coy on the topic. She gathers her strength before speaking again. “It’s just… I mean, everyone knows someone who’s slept with him, and he’s practically an urban legend at this point. He doesn’t even feel like a local anymore, he’s more like some fabled great lay of years past.”
I snort a laugh, but she keeps going.
“It’s been so long since he lived here, I think the tales only grew with time.”
Lexi nods her head, agreeing. “Yeah, that’s valid. From the stories I’ve heard, he’s either the size of a baseball bat, or he can pick one up with it, like it’s an elephant trunk. With the swagger that man walked back into town with, I’m not even sure I doubt either one of those at this point.”
Hell, with the glimpse I had the other night, I can understand the rumors. Laughter spews from my mouth until Lexi puts a hand on my shoulder, face tight with concern, and I sober.
“Have you heard of oiling the downstairs?”
“Erm, no?”
“It’s something Rory told me way too much about when she was pregnant. A massage her husband gave her to get ready for childbirth.” She uses air quotes on massage . “Ew. Like I wanted to know. But I think you need to start prepping for Weston now.”
Gracie leans closer, eyes soft with concern, and she nods her head sympathetically.
“Look at you, you’re just a teeny little thing, aren’t you? If what I’ve heard around the bonfire over the years is even a quarter true, he’s gonna split you in half.”
“Like an axe to a log.” Lexi nods sagely.
My eyes stretch wide—I guess that’s called foreshadowing for what the rest of me will be doing in two more weeks—at the X-rated images these women are putting in my head.
“You get those videos too?” Gracie turns to Lexi.
“Do I ever! The things I would do to a strapped, six five tattooed man…” She growls, low in her throat, and a grizzled man next to us turns to look at her.
The girls pay him no attention, continuing to giggle about inked up lumberjacks until I interrupt them, needing to speak up, to defend Weston’s honor somehow. The visual they painted won’t leave me alone.
“I mean, it’s not as long as a baseball bat…” My voice trails off, and Lexi grips my shoulders with both hands, jarring me as she turns me to face her.
“Are you holding out on us? We’ve been here ten minutes, if you’re telling me you’ve already fucked him and we haven’t heard, I’m gonna have to revoke the town citizenship card of half this place. Nobody, and I mean nobody in this town can keep a secret that well.”
“Shh!” Gracie is far from discreet—really it’s more of a shout than a whispered hush—but Lexi lowers her voice instantly.
“I’m gonna need more than that, Big Momma.”
My lips peel into a smile. “Big Momma?”
“You’re one big, bad bitch hiding in that lil pipsqueak of a package.”
The laugh tears out of me, surprising even myself with how readily it spills past my lips and into the heavy, hoppy air of the bar.
She winks at me. “You don’t have me fooled, girl. I see you.” Lexi bumps into me with her hip and—not being braced for it—the movement slides me over into Gracie, who catches me gently and lets me catch my balance again.
“Quit changing the subject,” Gracie whines.
“Can you stop depriving us of the tea now?” Lexi asks, eyes flaring with mischief. “Just put us out of our misery. How good is he?”
The thought of that sneak peek I got of what Weston’s packin’, it makes me lick my lips, and I probably look thirsty for more than just the drink we’re still waiting to order.
Both women whine in unison, groaning, and Lexi even throws her head back.
“Oh, oh that’s not fair!”
“That face you just made!” Gracie squeaks.
“Let me just order,” I beg, ready for something that burns on the way down. “Then we can find a table somewhere no one else is listening and I’ll answer two questions.”
Gracie’s face lights up and Lexi’s brows raise.
“Might have to go a few towns over to find somewhere no one is listening, but it’ll be worth it.”
Gracie leans into Lexi, eyes glowing. “What should we ask?”
“Only two questions,” I tell them, finger held high, but it doesn’t block my smirk.
“Big Momma has spoken,” Lexi jeers, nudging Gracie with her elbow before wrapping an arm around each of our shoulders. “We’d better choose wisely.”
“Ladies.” The low voice that utters the single word in lieu of a full sentence grips all three of our attention with those two syllables.
Turning, I face the bar to see one of the most intense looking men I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Black hair—short on the sides, longer on top—eyes like coal, and an air about him that sends a chill through me, I’m not prepared for his gaze to burn when it lands on me.
Perhaps if I hadn’t met Weston, I’d have returned the look. But this man isn’t even on my radar tonight. Nope, the only blip on my navigation system is the blond, sun-kissed guy back at the garage, greased up and working over my van, like the lucky bitch she is.
As attractive as the bartender is, it only makes me wish I was with Weston tonight instead. The man has broken my libido. Like I said, my last night in Smoky Heights can’t come soon enough.