Page 4 of Discovering Daisy

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He took out the three boxes, stacking them neatly against the car where they wouldn’t be harmed.

He rummaged in the trunk until he’d pulled the spare loose from its resting place. He winced after examining it. “I’m afraid we can’t use this. It has a hole in it, too.”

“It does?” she said, shocked.

He nodded. “See.” He held it out, his finger near the puncture. “But that’s okay. We can get you all fixed up.”

“Is there a mechanic’s shop nearby?” she asked.

“There’s one in town about ten miles away,” he said. “I use them a lot. They’ll get you squared away.”

“I hope it doesn’t take them too long to fix this. I’m not trying to be impatient, but I have to be in Florida soon.”

“I’m heading to Florida, myself. And I bet we’ll get you on the road quickly. No reason to worry.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He grinned. The affectionate look in his eyes testified to the fact that he clearly found her cute. “You don’t have to call me sir. I best officially introduce myself, though,” he said, offering his hand. “The name’s Wyatt McCall.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. McCall.” she said, “Daisy Mae Sutton.”

“Well, Daisy Mae, it’s very nice to meet you. And please, call me Wyatt. Now, let’s get you fixed up so we can both be on our way to Florida.”

At that moment, though, Daisy wasn’t sure she wanted her car fixed right away.

Because what she really wanted was to extend her time with the striking, handsome, sexy cowboy who was giving off all the Daddy vibes.

Chapter Three

Daisy was quiet as she rode in the front passenger seat of Wyatt’s shiny black pickup truck. It was well-maintained, but also clear he used it as a work vehicle. And the callouses she noticed on his big, strong hands told her he was no stranger to hard work. So that truck was probably put to daily use.

Her car was being taken to the nearest town by a tow truck not too far behind them.

Still hugging Hedy, Daisy said, “Mr. McCall?”

“You can call me Wyatt,” he reminded her in an easygoing tone. “What’s up?”

“I didn’t even see you pull into that bar. Were you already there?”

“No. I was passing by. I saw those fellers giving you a hard time, though.”

“Thank you for stopping.”

“I won’t stand by while anyone harasses a lady. That’s for sure.”

They drove on in silence for a few miles. Rolling, green pastureland punctuated by the occasional tree line stretched along both sides of the road.

She kept staring out the window—trying hard not to turn and gawk at him—and said, “You must live around here.”

“How’d you know? My Georgia accent that thick?”

She laughed. “Oh, it’s thick. But no thicker than my Tennessee drawl.”

“Where you from?”

“Just over the line. Chattanooga.”

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