Oakley
“Jesus, you’re dragging ass today.” I say, wiping my sweaty brow with my forearm as Travis sends me a death glare. I kind of like it though.
He’s feisty, that one.
“I’m not dragging. I’m doing a good job. Taking the time to make sure it doesn’t look like shit,” he says as he plants the last of the flowers in the bed we dug for the eighty-year-old lady who hired us.
“We have ten minutes left to finish or that sweet old lady is going to be charged for another hour,” I point out. Hey, I have a grandma. I’m not taking advantage of her fixed income.
He shoots me another glare but then stands up, wiping off the knees of his dirty jeans. “Fine. Done.”
“Was that so damn hard?” I can’t resist taunting him.
“I don’t want the sweet old lady to have a shitty-looking flowerbed either. Quality matters, Oakley.”
We gather our tools before Travis—who claims he’s better with people between the two of us—goes to get the check. Fuck him, I’m charming as hell.
He comes back as I’m loading the truck and then climbs behind the wheel—because he, apparently, is the better driver too.
According to him and him only.
Whatever. If it makes him less pissy on our route, I’m good with it. Nothing can ruin my mood. I love this job. There’s nothing like it. Getting my hands dirty, working every single muscle I have, and making the world look a little better.
It’s the goddamn dream.
Why Travis Wyatt has to be so angry while living it, I’ll never understand. So, he didn’t get to go to a fancy stuck-up college. So what? He’s not stuck behind some desk all damn day, bored out of his mind.
That’s my nightmare right there.
He marks the payment down in our notebook and tucks the check away, because yes, some people are old-school and still despise electronic payments. He starts the drive to the next house, that same look of disdain on his face.
“You know what your problem is, Wyatt?”
His fingers tighten on the steering wheel as he shakes his head. “Travis. My name is Travis.”
I chuckle at that and then relent. “Fine. You know what your problem is, Travis?”
With his jaw clenched, he keeps his eyes on the road. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me. Can’t wait.”
Somehow, I don’t think he means that.
I tell him anyway. “You need to get laid. You need to get out of that apartment of yours and go down to the bar. Have a little fun.”
“I’m not twenty-one,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I don’t think they really care. And you don’t need to be twenty-one to get laid.”
Not surprisingly, he’s unamused. “Worry about yourself, Oakley.”
“I’m not the grumpy bastard.” I grin, turning to look out the window at the houses we pass, most of them customers of our company. It’s a nice part of town with people too busy or too old to take care of their own lawns. “I have no trouble getting laid.”
He grumbles something I don’t quite hear, and I’m sure I don’t want to.
“Oh, I know!” I say, turning back to him, smiling to myself when I see a smudge of dirt on his cheek. That’ll drive him crazy when he sees it, but no way am I getting my head bitten off when he notices it. “You should ask Jamie out.”
“The receptionist?”
I nod, trying to encourage him. “She’s hot, and she’s a damn good time.”
He parks in the driveway of our next house and looks disgusted. “You’ve slept with our receptionist?”
“Hey.” I hold up both my hands. “I just said she was a good time. I gave no details. I’m a motherfucking gentleman.”
He scoffs and pushes open the truck door. “Right. That’s exactly how I’d describe you.”
I open my door and jump out, heading to the truck bed, and start pulling out tools. “Yup. That’s me.”
“I don’t want or need your sloppy seconds, Oakley.”
He grabs a shovel, his eyes firmly on mine, and I notice just how green they look in the sun, a bright sort of green I haven’t noticed before. Huh. “Hey, she’s not sloppy. And she’s a nice girl. I bet you’d get along just fine.”
He turns to me, his irritation clear. “Did you just call me nice?”
I laugh because yeah, no way. “No, but I think that’s probably your type. A nice, sweet girl who doesn’t argue.”
He glares at me, and I chuckle. Man, I really get under his skin.
“Don’t worry about me getting laid or what my type is. We’re here to do a job. That’s it. We don’t have to make small talk all damn day.”
“You love my small talk. I’m highly skilled at small talk.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles as he heads to the door to check in with the client.
I should probably request a change of partners for this job, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. It’s way too much fun, fucking with Travis.