Page 14 of Filthy Player

It muddled everything I wanted to believe, that he was the guy he’d been at dinner before he apologized.

Instead, he kept his distance for the most part. He was polite, respectful, with only a small amount of flirting.

At least until he explained why he wanted to take me to dinner.

Was my exhaustion and stress so noticeable? Apparently it was because he brought it up and a quick check in the mirror after he left proved the bags under my eye true.

Darn. I’d even paid a fortune for concealer and foundation to hide all that and it still showed.

It still didn’t mean I was going to go to dinner with him.

It’d be dumb.

It’d probably be fun.

I didn’t have time for fun.

Needless to say, he left me so distracted that about halfway through the morning, I’d dropped enough cans of oil, the concerned glances I received from Lance and Mike, our main two mechanics, eventually turned to annoyance.

I debated calling Hannah for advice but didn’t. Her advice would be something along the lines of, “Ride that buckin’ Bronco until you’re too sore to walk.”

Which was more descriptive and visually appealing than helpful.

Eventually, I took an early lunch. I was a whole lot annoyed, a little bit turned on, and questioning if taking Hannah’s assumed advice would really be such a bad thing.

What harm could a simple dinner bring? I’d get a free, decent meal, something I could desperately use, and I’d have conversation. It was the conversation Beaux wanted to have that made me uncertain.

After lunch, I went home and hung out with my dad for a while. Then I helped him out of his wheelchair and into the car, and we returned to the garage.

I barely had him settled back in his wheelchair when a black Cadillac Escalade pulled into the lot.

“What the hell?” I muttered as Beaux Hale climbed out of the gleaming SUV.

He wasn’t the only one, either.

Close on his heels were Oliver Powell, Kolby Jones, and Danny Rudolph.

Holy mega load of pheromones.

“Christ on a cracker,” my dad said, sitting in his chair at my side.

I looked down, unable to hide my excitement for him. Beaux didn’t have to do this. Nothing like this. I’d expected a signed shirt, a photograph, hell, maybe a football. But with four guys from the Rough Riders showing up and walking through our parking lot carrying what looked like a large gift bag, I barely registered the work and blaring music from inside the garage screeching to a halt.

“The hell?” Mike asked. He rushed up and stopped at my dad’s other side while wiping his grease monkey hands on a towel.

“I might have neglected to tell you the truck you’re working on belongs to Beaux Hale.”

Mike’s eyes popped wide. “You shittin’ me? That piece of crap?”

“Hey now,” Beaux said, sidling up to our small, completely enamored group. “That’s ol’ Betsy you’re talking about.”

Mike, barely twenty-one, was a foster kid when he started working for my dad. As soon as he aged out of the system, he moved into the crummy apartment above the garage. He’d become like a brother to me over the years and was usually unflappable. Watching him stammer around this group of guys made me smile. “Sorry, man. It’s just…wow…holy shit. You’re Beaux Hale, and Oliver Powell, and —”

“Kolby Jones,” Kolby cut in.

“Danny Rudolph,” the last guy said, grinning. “We know our names. And you are?” He held out his hand and Mike’s trembling one slid into it, cringing as he saw the oil on his palm.

“Mike. Mike Hannover. Damn glad to meet you guys.”

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