Chapter 47
TATE
Later that day, Jordan and I stand outside a run-down house on the edge of Carey Colworth’s university campus. I knock on the door but there’s no answer.
“Is this a frat?” I ask. There’s a rumbling sound in the distance.
“It’s a student house with a bunch of hockey players.” Her eyes move over the red Solo cups scattered across the lawn. In the bushes, a pair of legs sticks out. She leans down to inspect the owner of the legs with wary concern. “He’s breathing,” she says, straightening up. “Just sleeping.”
Sleeping, like I slept all night. With Jordan. In my bed. In my arms.
It’s wrong, what we’re doing. She told me very clearly that any feelings I have are one-sided. That she sees me as her boss and some dorky single dad, and that I’m not her type and she has absolutely no interest in me.
So I don’t know what I’m doing. This isn’t like me.
Isn’t it, though? An unwelcome voice of self-reflection says in my head. This is what you do. You get ideas about people and their potential and then you have a hard time letting go.
“Thanks again for watching Bea the other week,” I tell her, trying not to think about what I did after, with her panties wrapped around my fist. “I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” She shrugs. “Honestly. She’s great.”
“Yeah. She is.” I snag on her words. “Do you want kids?” I ask for some reason.
Her gaze widens a fraction. “Um. No.”
Well. There you go.
I knock on the door again, pulling my attention back to the task at hand. The rumbling gets louder.
“Do we have the time right? Maybe there’s another . . .” She trails off. “Uh.”
A Ford Bronco straight from the nineties pulls up. The thing appears in good shape, actually, even if it sounds like the engine has been swapped with something more powerful than anyone needs.
There are flames down the side, though.
Also, a roof rack with a massive light bar.
The truck screeches to a halt in front of the house, knocking over one of the garbage bins.
“Oh god,” Jordan mutters, and I try not to laugh. “Tate, I think this was a mistake.”
“Let’s give him a chance.” At the worry and panic in her eyes, I give her a reassuring smile. “I don’t expect perfection, Jordan. If he’s not the right guy, we go home and try again tomorrow.”
I don’t think she’s wrong, though. I’ve got that feeling again.
She gives me a strange look. “You’re in a good mood today.”
Am I? “No more than normal.”
“You’re whistling.” She says it like I’m stealing a car or something, horrified and aghast.
I chuckle. I like scandalizing her like this.
“I had a good sleep,” I admit without thinking, and our eyes meet. Her expression is startled, like this is a completely inappropriate thing for her boss to say.
Which it is.
I’m holding her eyes, so pretty in the daylight, scrambling for something to say, when the door of the Bronco swings open and worn work boots hit the ground.
A big, shiny belt buckle. A young guy with unruly dark blond hair, a mustache, an open Hawaiian shirt, and a Stetson cowboy hat slams the door closed. Under his shirt, he’s bare-chested.
As he makes his way to us, Carey Colworth whistles, long and low, shaking his head, glancing between me and Jordan. “There is a very strong sexual energy out here.”
Jordan gives me a horrified look that makes it hard not to laugh.
Colworth shakes his head. “Must be my belt buckle. Turns everyone on.”
“Even if he’s not our guy,” I say near her ear, “at least it’ll be interesting.”