Chapter 5
Meg
I can’t figure out why he keeps staring at me.
Well, maybe it’s more of a glare. I just don’t understand.
I look down at my shirt as I reach into my closet to grab my worn hoodie.
Nope, no stain there. Pulling the hoodie over my head, I jam my feet into my grey converse.
I’m just going to figure that he isn’t used to seeing a girl with so much of… . Well, everything.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I state. He looks at me with his dark eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips. I’m about to ask what he finds so amusing when he starts to speak.
“What kind of office do you work in that you can be so casual at work—and exactly how old are you, you look like a high schooler,” the questions spill from his lips as if he has lost control. It is almost a ramble.
I weigh my options. Should I go the sarcasm route, answer honestly, or be snarky?
I decide for a combination of all three.
“Wow, I think that is the most I have heard you speak all at once! I didn’t know your vocabulary was that diverse.
For your information, I am my own boss, it is my company, I can wear what I want to work.
And two, I’m 34 for your information, not a high school student,” I sputter.
Well, that could have been smoother. I soldier on, figuring I’m already this far without a paddle.
Might as well continue this train wreck of a conversation.
“How old are you, and while I’m asking questions, what the hell is your name?” It dawns on me that we have never technically introduced ourselves. I guess almost dying, and then being knocked out by a migraine, may get in the way of conventional introductions.
His eyes widen slightly, as if he is suddenly realizing we don’t know each other at all.
He folds his arms across his chest, and smirks again.
He is so distracting. All those muscles, and tattoos, and dark hair, and eyes that can’t seem to make up their mind about what color they are. Focus, Meg, focus!
“Sterling,” he murmurs. “And I’m 39.” He turns to look under the sink seemingly uninterested about learning my name. Which, I won’t be volunteering. If he isn’t interested in knowing it, I’m not interested in sharing it.
“I’ll need to stop at the hardware store to pick up a seal and a couple of other things for this leak,” he states.
I’m not sure if I should argue with him about this, or if I should just let it go. I settle on a half-hearted protest.
“You don’t need to do that, I can handle it myself it’s no—,” I’m interrupted again by his scoff.
“This thing has been leaking for a while, when exactly did you plan on handling it,” he asks sarcastically.
I’m about to retort when he turns around, slings his duffle bag over his shoulder, and clips out that he is ready to leave.
Shocked, I just follow behind him. When I go to look for my keys, I see he already has them and is locking the door.
It is like he owns the place and knows exactly how to twist the handle a little to the left to get it to latch.
“Needs a new lock too, damn it,” he mutters and pockets the keys heading towards my carport.
It is a chilly morning and looking a bit overcast. I take a deep breath of the cool air.
Fall is my favorite time of year. I hear his truck turn over and run to the carport. I don’t need him leaving without me.
I slide into the truck and close the hefty door. Setting my backpack on the floor between my feet, I reach for the seat belt. I notice that only once I have my seatbelt secured, does he put his truck in reverse and back out. Interesting.
“Where’s your office,” he abruptly asks. I almost forgot that he didn’t know. He seems to be able to navigate my life just fine.
“Right next to Doe’s coffee,” I say. Thank goodness I can walk there and grab some food today.
Being without my Bronco is highly inconvenient at least I can get some coffee and a sandwich or a pastry for lunch.
He nods and continues driving in silence.
It isn’t necessarily uncomfortable, but I am keenly aware of every little detail.
His muscular forearm, the way his large hand expertly maneuvers his truck.
I shake my head a bit to try to clear it.
“Are you getting another headache? You used up all your meds last night,” he said. I blink at him for a second, wondering how he is so observant. I also wonder why he he cares.
“No, I think I’m good. I’ll put in for a refill today, I have a couple of pills in the glove compartment of the bronco too,” I state and turn to look out the window.
Trying to end this conversation. All of a sudden, I’m uncomfortable.
I am not used to having to answer or explain myself to many people—even if they are coming from a place of concern.
I hear him grunt as he pulls out of the neighborhood.
I start counting the reflectors in the road, hoping to distract myself.
“What time will you need me to pick you up today,” he gruffly asks. He is running one of his large hands through his thick dark hair. He has a slight frown on his face, and is concentrating on the road.
I mull over my answer, thinking about the clients that I need to finish some projects for, and clear my throat. I don’t want to be a bother, and I can work for as long or short as he needs. I’m pretty flexible.
“Really, whenever you are free. I can make any time work,” I state. I am hoping the response is neutral enough. I mean, it’s his vehicle and time after all. Beggars can’t be choosers, or whatever that saying is.
“It’s Saturday, I usually wrap up at the shop around 2:00. Does 2:30 work,” he glances over at me quickly before turning into the small parking lot.
I sigh in relief and nod. That gives me plenty of time to tie up some loose ends and start on a few social media campaigns.
“That will work, thanks for the lift,” I go to jump out of his truck when he grabs me gently by the arm.
The move shocks me and I jerk around to look at him.
He quickly removes his hand and clears his throat.
“I, uhhh, need your phone number,’’ he states awkwardly. My look of shock must be evident. “ In case I get tied up, and need to contact you,’’ he states in an obvious tone.
“Oh, right,” I say a bit louder than necessary. Of course he wanted my number for completely practical reasons. Get a grip. I rattle off my number, as he plugs it into his phone.
“See you at 2:30,” I say, and jump out of the truck with my back pack, hightailing it to the door of the coffee shop.