Chapter Six
Jessa
A groan tears from me as I haul my plump behind into the cab of the service truck. It’s been a long ass day. The dozer we’ve been working on needed some extensive repairs to get it running again.
“That piece of shit is on its last legs. It seems like they’d be better off getting a new machine.
I know they cost an arm and a leg, but for the amount they’re sinking into this one to run slower than molasses I’m pretty sure they’d come out ahead in time and repairs saved,” Lane quips, dropping into the passenger seat with a sigh, but then he grins before continuing.
“Then again, it’s more money in our pockets getting called out here to take care of it, so I can’t complain too much. ”
Working with Lane has been nothing like I expected. After our initial clashes, which were really more my fault for jumping to conclusions, it’s actually been pretty pleasant working with the man. I shouldn’t have lumped him in with the rest of the assholes I’m used to dealing with.
His Pollyanna way of looking at things has been quite different from what I’m used to as well. “I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone, let alone a male, who always has a way of putting a positive spin on things. Is there anything you don’t find the best in?”
“Not usually. Why waste what precious time we have here being perpetually pissed off?”
I scoff as I start the truck and maneuver the big rig onto the road, heading back to Masterson’s yard. “I’m not perpetually pissed off.”
He smirks. “Never said you were, but you are one of the most guarded women I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with it. To each his own, and I certainly understand why you might be that way.”
I’m taken aback by his words. Never has someone so readily given me grace for being who I am, especially without telling me I’d catch more flies with honey. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean, because why the fuck would I want to catch flies anyway?
If it’s men they’re referring to, then I certainly don’t care about catching any. Unless it’s one like Lane. Most men I don’t give a flying fig about, but this man with his devilishly handsome smile and chiseled thick body has me lighting up in the best of ways.
He’s quick to sing my praises on the job. And the smoldering looks he’s been casting my way when he doesn’t think I see him watching me have me twitterpated like a high school girl with her first crush.
As much as the attention is flattering though, warning bells continue to clang when he gets me wound up like only he can. I’ve been down this road before. I know better than to let a mischievous grin and good looks blind me to the carnage that can come from them.
I shake my head. “Well, I have met too many people who wouldn’t agree with you. I appreciate the sentiment though.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Lane opens his mouth to reply, but my stomach rumbles audibly, echoing embarrassingly in the cab, interrupting whatever he was going to say. He chuckles instead.
My cheeks heat. “Whelp I guess it’s dinnertime.” A groan follows when I think about the state of my refrigerator. “Or not. I’m not sure if I’ve got anything that doesn’t require major prep. Definitely do not have the energy for that.”
“How about I take you out? You haven’t been to The Foundry yet, have you?”
My head whips in his direction, eyes narrowed as I slow to pull into the yard. “You’re not trying to make this a date, are you? Because if so, I’m out.”
He holds both hands up, giving me what I’m sure he thinks is a look of innocence. “I promise it’s not a date. I’d never ask a woman to go on a date with me when I’m this dirty,” he pauses, doing a show of sniffing his armpit and making a sour face, “or smelly.”
Pressing my lips together to keep from smiling, I consider his offer.
My head and my gut are at odds with each other.
My head’s telling me I need to not spend so much time with him.
He’s already chipping away at the walls, which are there for a very good reason, and I should put a stop to it before it’s too late.
My gut, on the other hand, is in cahoots with my stupid, stuttering heart. They’re telling me he’s different from all the rest and maybe could just be the one who isn’t a complete ass.
Parking the truck, I sigh as my stomach rumbles again. It, too, must be scheming with my traitorous heart. “Fine, let’s go, but I’m paying since you bought me lunch the first time we went to the Steel Belly.”
Lane’s lips twitch, and I wait for him to argue about me paying. But I’m surprised when he nods. “Alright.”
My eyebrow arches. “Just like that? No argument?”
“Nope.”
“Huh, well, good.”
We climb from the truck, locking it up, and make our way across the lot to our vehicles.
Lane raps his knuckles on Carla before heading to his white crew cab pickup parked next to her. “You can follow me.”
He leads the way across the small town of Forge Creek.
The once industrial hub, built around mills, rail lines, and trade routes, is currently in the midst of a revival.
Old factories are being reborn as workshops and storefronts.
The roads and bridges hum with constant repair, and new construction rises beside century-old brick buildings.
The air rushing in my open window smells faintly of oil and fresh-cut lumber. The sidewalks are filled with people in hardhats, steel-toed boots, or grease-stained jackets. Hardworking folks who are bringing this small town back to life.
I follow Lane’s truck into a crowded parking lot next to one of the many old brick buildings.
We enter the bar and grill to the chorus of clinking dishware and glasses mixed with the dull roar of conversation.
The patrons, who have made their way here after their shifts, are just as grimy as Lane and I.
The interior of the building is dimly lit with the brick and steel beams left exposed.
There are some familiar faces I’ve met over the last week around the heavy wood tables.
Hank Mullins, the Public Works foreman, is talking with Hugo Rhodes from the Road and Ridge crew, and Kane Langston, owner of Forge Creek Municipal Contractors.
Gus “Red” Holloway, manager of the Forge Creek Union Hall, is at the bar talking to Doris Whitfield, the owner of Whitfield and Sons Hardware.
I’m about to ask Lane who the man talking to Sheriff Callahan is when a squeal pierces the air so loud it can be heard over all the noise. My stomach drops when a woman with a wide smile, who looks to be in her late 20s, practically throws herself at Lane.
“Lane, I’ve missed you.”
“Hey doll.” He swings her in a circle as she laughs, arms wrapped around his neck.
This right here is the exact reminder I need that all men are the same. Lane certainly isn’t the exception to the rule.
It’s a good thing I’ve kept my wits with this one and haven’t succumbed to his charm.