I haven't even made it all the way down the dirt road from the river where Luke Saint is camped out, before I see his truck behind me. He flashes his lights twice before I slow down, pulling over on the side of the road even though I'm tempted to speed the hell up and just outrun him.
I don't get out of my car. He can damn well come to me if he wants to talk to me.
I'll sit here behind the wheel, thank you very much. Just in case I need to run him over with my car.
Luke saunters up to my car like he does this every day, and I roll down my window. "Did I forget something?" I ask.
"Your fucking name," he says, leaning with his arms against the top of the window. "What the hell is your damn name, already?"
The way he says it, completely exasperated, makes me laugh. "You chased me down because you want to know my name?"
"I'm curious," he says. "It's a character flaw."
"Autumn Mayburn."
He nods, apparently satisfied. "Suits you," he says.
Because of the red hair. Like I haven't heard that before. I don't even bother trying to keep from rolling my eyes. "Is that it?" I ask. "Can I go now?"
"No," he says. "Who told you where the hell I'm staying?"
"Don't look at me like I'm some kind of psycho stalker chick who's going to boil a bunny on your stove or something. I asked one of the firefighters and he told me. If I'd have known that it was super top secret, I wouldn't have gone out there."
"It's not super top secret," he says.
"I'm surprised you didn't come out waving a shotgun."
"Shit, I'm just as surprised about that as you are." He flashes that cocky grin of his again. "Or worse. You should be glad I came out wearing drawers. I could have come out naked as a jaybird."
The thought of this man walking out of his house and greeting me, stark naked, makes me flush warm.
Oh, hell. I'm turned on by this brash, arrogant, pretty boy who lives by the river with his dog in a trailer. I officially have the world's worst taste in men.
"Well." I tear my mind away from the thought of him naked and somehow find my voice again. "I'm glad you didn't. There's no sense in embarrassing yourself."
"Oh, there's nothing embarrassing about me naked," he says. He's leaning with his arms on the top of the car door, casual like he does this every day. "That's for damn sure."
I roll my eyes. "Well, we'll have to agree to disagree, I suppose," I say. "Are you satisfied now? You know my name. If you don't mind, I actually have things to do today."
"Like what?" He doesn't even pretend to move away from the door. Obviously, this guy doesn't understand subtlety. Maybe I should put the car in drive.
"Like, what do I have to do today?"
"Like, what do you have to do today, that's better than talking to me?"
"Pick anything," I say.
"Wash your hair?" he asks.
"Wash my hair?"
"Isn't that what women do?" he asks.
"I hope that's part of most male grooming routines too," I say. "Take shower, wash hair, scratch balls, that kind of thing."
"I meant, isn't that the standard excuse women give when they're too busy for a date?" he asks.
"Yeah, if this were 1952," I say. "Wait. Are you asking me on a date?"
"What?" He scrunches his face up like he just stuck his finger in a light socket. "I'm not asking you on a date. There is no fucking date asking going on, lady. And for the record? I don’t date."
"All of a sudden I'm lady again?" I ask. "You're like a broken record. You're the one who brought up date, not me."
"I didn't bring up date," he says. "You're not my type. You're like, the exact opposite of my type."
Damn, he's on my last nerve again. I guess you really can be that pretty and that damn annoying at the same time. "Yeah, I didn't figure you were the type of guy that went for gorgeous, brilliant women."
He laughs. "You're good-looking, I'll give you that. But I don't do high-maintenance."
I bristle at his words. "I don't even know what part of that statement is more insulting."
"What do you mean?" he asks. "I said I'd concede that you're good-looking."
"That's very generous of you."
"Why did you show up at my place, anyway?"
"I can't, for the life of me, think what in the hell possessed me to come out here," I say, putting the car in drive.
He stands up and grins at me again. "I've heard your memory goes when you get older," he says.
I press the gas pedal and pull out around him, kicking up a cloud of dust on the dirt road as I drive away. When I glance in the rear view mirror, he's laughing and shaking his head as he stands there watching me.
What an irritating, arrogant prick. I'll just have to find a foreman the old-fashioned way.
By the afternoon, I'm grumpy and no closer to finding a foreman than I was in the morning. One of the orchard workers I trust says he has a cousin -- twice removed or something – a couple of towns over who might be a good fit, but other than that, I'm coming up blank.