Page 3 of Big Dog
“This isn’t right,” he tells me from his position back at the fireplace. “I’m too old for you.”
“I told you age doesn’t matter to me.”
“Deacon would have a fit.”
“Deacon doesn’t want to be with me. If he does, Violet will have more to say about it than I will.”
Bishop glares at me, but the corners of his mouth turn up the tiniest bit before his frown returns. “You know what I mean.”
“You don’t want to fuck it up for our families,” I say.
“Exactly. What if we try and it goes south?”
“What if it doesn’t?” I counter.
“I’m not willing to risk it. You said you’d accept that. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wear that dress again, though, to help me along.” I see the tension across his broad shoulders. He’s determined, much to my sorrow.
“I’m not going to change my clothes tonight, but you have my word that I’ll treat you like family.” Thank God for Peony. My little niece will be a wonderful distraction at Thanksgiving dinner. “As for the rest of what I said…I do need to deal with the chicken, and the champagne does need opening. I’d love to pick your brain about advertising options in the area.” Business was a safe topic. If I can’t get what I want from Bishop Dobermann, I can at least get something useful.
Chapter Four
Ineed a beer. I need several. I don’t want to think about Romy and the look that flashed across her face and her potentially hurt feelings. Since I turned her down, she’s been true to her word. She dialled it way the hell back at supper and was totally platonic as she talked about her business ideas and commiserated about how hard it was not to buy out the toy store for an adorable two-year-old niece. I declined supper at Deacon and Violet’s that weekend. Romy called in sick to supper the weekend after that. The following Monday, Violet said that Romy had been down with the bug that had taken out Peony the week before, so her absence wasn’t retaliatory. She was everything she promised to be.
I don’t want Romy Turner’s fucking friendship. I want her in my bed. I want the secret smiles she sent me when a contractor was trying to pull one over on her and failing. I want the breathless sighs like after she’d taken a big gulp of the champagne I gave her. I want to wear her like a hat with her legs spread wantonly in front of me.
But every part of me except my dick is convinced it’s a bad idea.
Besides, I couldn’t be with her even if I wanted to. Which I decidedly don’t. Hell, I don’t have time to breathe these days. Ever since the only other garage in a twenty mile radius shut down, the Lonesome Garage has been picking up the slack. The extra business is great, but we don’t have the staff to keep up.
I’m supposed to be interviewing someone today, so we have some more help. A second person has finally responded to our online ad for a licensed mechanic. The first applicant - Jordan Pratt - is local. He looks okay on paper, but he didn’t impress me or Deacon. Since we are two of the three owners, and JD wasn’t in on the interview, that doesn’t bode well. This second guy is new to the area. His references are impeccable, but nobody knows him personally. It’s a toss-up, but I’m hopeful.
I’m arm-deep in an oil change when I feel a presence at my back. Fortunately, the person has the good enough sense to announce himself. “Mr. Dobermann. I’m Hartley Weston. Call me Hart. We have an interview scheduled?”
Crap, it’s that time already. I was going to meet him in the office and be all professional and shit, but there is so much to do.
“Do you want to make this a practical interview? Check out my tire rotation technique while we talk?” he continues.
“That’s what I had planned,” I lie. At least if he’s a bust, I won’t have wasted any time.
He’s efficient, adept, and noticeably a lefty. But his work is as good as anything I can do. I like the fact that he’s ex-military. We know how to work with that. Hart says that he left his hometown in Oklahoma because he didn’t want his folks to shoehorn a place for him into the family ranch. He wanted to have a job that was a good fit from the start. When I quiz him on why he picked Lonesome of all places to apply, he said that friends of friends had spoken well of the place. Honestly, I don’t care that much. He knows his shit and doesn’t seem like an asshole, which already puts him in the lead for the position.
A familiar engine approaches, and Romy’s little car pulls up to the garage. “Hey, Bishop. I’m here to pick up Violet for supper and book club. Hello, new person,” she adds, looking over my shoulder.
Violet comes out of the office, her purse over her shoulder. When the women stand next to each other, it’s obvious that they’re sisters. “Did I miss an appointment?” Violet asks.
“Ladies, this is Hart Weston. He’s interviewing for a mechanic position.”
I see Violet and Romy look at Hart, then share a glance. He’s clean-cut and fit. I’m sure women find him attractive. I’m not worried Violet will try anything. She’s completely into Deacon. As for Romy, she can like whatever type she wants. Two weeks ago, taller and beefier was her type. If she wants to move to skinny jeans and a baby-face a decade younger than me, that is her business.
“Payroll is done, and I’ll see you on Monday,” Violet says. “Have a good weekend, and good luck, Hart.”
I’m dying to ask about Romy but I’m not going to. As long as she’s at book club with the girls, my imagination doesn’t have to worry about what she might be doing with Hart or any other guy. Deacon has a daddy-daughter date with Peony tonight while Violet is out, leaving me on my own. It feels like a great night to head to the bar and grill and have some beers with JD and his boys. If I have enough, I can stumble back to the garage and sleep it off on the sofa in the apartment upstairs and not dream of Romy.
Four beers and a double-cheese burger and fries later, my plan is not working. It’s early so people are still arriving to see our hometown country band, Low Bar, play. Local real estate agent Curtis Cort and Jordan Pratt are at least two pitchers in and seem to be looking for targets. I know that the Lost Souls on bar duty will take care of them if they take their crap too far. Still,I don’t want to have to keep one eye on a pair of yahoos to make sure they don’t knock over my beer… oh my fucking God, I’m a grumpy old man! When the hell did that happen? And why does Romy think it is attractive?
My mood does not improve when Romy, Violet, and sisters Maya and April Green burst through the bar doors, giggling and grabbing each other like their laughter might knock them off their feet. April is in a little black number while Maya has a similar dress in purple. Violet has a cute polka dot blouse and jeans on. Romy, however, is wearing a ridiculously short skirt, killer heels and a red sweater that is so tight it might as well be a second skin.
“Barbarian,” April insists.
