Page 25 of Golden Touch
“Sit,” Nash barks, giving me a macho frown.
My hands freeze on the seatbelt buckle.
“Arliss has it.”
Who? But I’m smart enough to keep my trap shut as Nash undoes his own seatbelt and gets out of the car.
That’s when I notice the FULL SERVICE sign on the pump. I didn’t even know that was still a thing. And sure enough, a guy about ninety years old limps up to Nash, wearing a gap-toothed smile. They shake hands. Nash disappears into the store.
Okay. Whatever. I seethe as I calculate the cost of a full tank. The up-charge will only be three bucks, but I’m still going to resent the hell out of it, mostly because Nash didn’t check with me first.
And then I notice that the old man is pumping premium gas, and I recalculate again, damn it. I’m getting all worked up into a Lady Mood ™ by the time the tank is full. Nash still hasn’t emerged from the shop, which is really flipping convenient, because that leaves me to pay this man a tip, too. I pull out my credit card. But the old man limps back to the building without telling me my total.
Nash shows up a few minutes later carrying a bag. He stashesit in the backseat before reclaiming his spot behind the wheel. Then he starts the engine to let her warm up again.
“Um, I don’t have cash,” I admit. “You should have let me put it on my card.”
“It’s on me,” he says, his voice a low, sexy scrape.
Ignoring the flutter in my lower belly, I ask, “What’s in the bag? Because if you’re already planning your escape back to Boston, there’s something I need to tell you. Your father had a change of heart.”
“About what?” Nash asks.
“Goldenpour. He wants to call you one morning after we order supplies. He’ll give you the recipe for mashing in a batch. The whole recipe.”
There’s a grunt from the driver’s seat.
“I basically threatened to quit if he was going to let the place go to hell.”
Another grunt. “Okay.”
Okay. What does that even mean in this context?
He puts the engine in gear. But then his phone chimes with a text. He puts the car into park again and pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket. “Sorry. Gotta know if it’s Leila.”
Something tight inside my chest loosens up by a fractional degree. “Of course.”
He opens his phone and reads a text. Then he leans his head back suddenly and smiles at the ceiling of my crappy car.
“What?” I demand.
“Baby girl,” he says. “Everyone healthy. Born right around the time my dad and I were shouting at each other.”
A baby girl. I sit with that a second. I picture ten tiny fingers and two chubby little feet. “That’s some good news right there.”
“It is,” he whispers. “And that’s why I’m here, yeah? Not just to be Dad’s punching bag. But to take Leila’s mind off the business, so she can have her baby in peace. I gotta remember that.”
He puts the car in gear and pulls out onto the road. There’s a moment of silence, and I finally relax.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.
“For what?”
“I made you come to see my dad, because I thought he’d be less of an asshole, and then I’m the guy who stormed out. Didn’t mean to put you in the middle of it all.”
The apology stuns me into silence. I’m used to men’s tantrums, but theyneversay they’re sorry. “It’s fine,” I murmur. “No harm done.”
He sighs.
