Chapter 31 Hunter
Hunter
It’s Monday morning, and the shop smells like burnt coffee because Truitt got here first today.
I’m crouched next to one of the sprayers, covered in hydraulic fluid and trying to replace an O-ring, when Cal strolls in late, like he owns the place.
“You look like you’re getting sleep for once,” Cal says, grabbing a wrench off the wall. “What’s her name?”
“Jesus,” I mutter, twisting the valve harder than necessary.
“He does look well rested, doesn’t he? He’s got that look,” Truitt adds. “You know. Distracted. Happy but irritated about it. Like a guy who doesn’t want to admit he’s catching feelings.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm. “Last I checked, I’m not paying you two to stand around and comment on my looks.”
Truitt chuckles, turning to Cal. “There’s a girl. There’s definitely a girl.”
Cal smirks. “Oh I already know that. I heard through the grapevine it’s that new chick in town. And I heard you’ve been talking to her.”
Of course word’s gotten around. Wren’s been spending time with an old friend, and if she’s like anyone else in town, she’s probably got a mouth on her. Not to mention this town can’t keep a secret to save its life.
“She’s just a neighbor,” I say, getting back to the valve. “Single mom. I helped her out a couple times.”
“That’s what they’re calling it these days,” Cal says under his breath. “Helping out.”
Truitt elbows him. “What’s she do? What’s her deal?”
“She’s a writer,” I say without thinking.
“Wait. Is that the same woman the whole town’s talking about?” Truitt asks, a light in his eyes like it’s all registering.
“No shit?” Cal whistles. “Doesn’t she write smut or something?”
I stand up straight, the wrench heavy in my grip. “Don’t call it that.”
Cal throws his hands up. “Okay, okay. Just saying. Those books are spicy. She probably knows all kinds of things most women around here don’t.”
I glare at him, not liking the way his mind works. “She’s not like that.”
“Fine,” he says, still grinning like an idiot. “But don’t come crying to me when you end up in one of those books. Everyone knows you two are talking, which means everyone’s gonna know the next one’s based on you.”
The thought freezes me mid-motion.
Wren’s joked about it—said she’d use my lines or that stolen moment in the shop, but she backed down pretty quickly when she saw my reaction. I didn’t think anything more of it at the time, but Cal’s words plant something sharp in the back of my brain.
I’ve spent twenty years building a reputation here. I keep to myself. I keep my business private. The last thing I need is some book floating around with a broody farmer character that everyone in Jasperville County can trace back to me.
If she writes me into a damn novel, I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll be a running joke, a laughingstock. It could compromise land deals and God only knows what else.
I should talk to her.
I need to make it clear that whatever inspiration she’s getting from me stays between us and her damn imagination.
I’ll inspire her all she wants—privately.
Then again, I don’t want to go making assumptions, and I can’t imagine she’d want me telling her how to do her job any more than I’d want her telling me how to plant corn.
I need to think on this because one wrong move, and I might lose her before she’s even mine.