Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

“I want this chance,” I whisper, fear of my desires dripping from each word. “I want it so much I can taste it, but I don’t know how to forget that we lost so much. How do I ignore the fact that, while we were meant to be together, we’ve spent years apart and not exactly without the attention of other people durin’ that time?”

“You just do,” she says softly. “You just do. Now that’s somethin’ I can tell you from experience, honey. You said it yourself: he never thought y’all would get this chance again, and you were livin’ your life thinkin’ the same damn thing. You can’t hold that against him, and he can’t hold it against you.”

“And if I do this, move forward to him and not away from him, what happens when one of us realizes there’s nothin’ left to have?”

“Then you have your friend back, Quinn. You guys spent a long damn time as friends before anything matured from that. There are no guarantees in this world, but at least you know, one way or the other, you have him back in your life. But, Q, that’s your fear makin’ you ask that question. Trust me on that.”

I inhale, leaning back and pulling the air deep into my lungs for strength while I mull over her words. Is it as simple as that? Are my fears of being hurt again just creating problems that aren’t even there?

“You felt the power of y’all’s connection touch you from just a scribbled-down phone message written on a dirty piece of paper, Quinn. You hadn’t heard his voice, seen the man he is now, or known there was a chance to have it all back, and you still felt that. All from a piece of paper, honey. Stop tryin’ to think of ways that it won’t work and start focusin’ on the proof that it will. You’re a hell-raisin’ badass, remember?”

I choke on a laugh, her words warming me from the inside.

“Yeah, I am a hell-raisin’ badass,” I agree through wobbly lips.

“You betcha ass you are. Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

Well, isn’t that the million-dollar question.





11


QUINN


“Burning House” by Cam

- -

I stand back and study the old F1 with a critical eye. I’ve just finished putting everything back together, the panel fitment being the biggest pain in my ass, but after a two-day struggle, Homer is getting his first breath of fresh air after a long process of fixing imperfections, priming and painting.

Now that everything I had dismantled is put back together on the old frame and he’s had his date in the paint booth, the old guy is finally aligned, symmetrical and sexy as hell, his paint gleaming in the bright shop lights. Honest to God, Homer looks even better than he probably did right off the line nearly seventy years ago.

It’s taken me a whole day to get the suspension reinstalled, and with the help of Tank, Homer’s new motor and transmission are back in. I just finished running the new brake and fuel lines as well as the electrical components inside Homer’s sexy frame. I still have to install the exhaust system I ordered for him, one that I have no doubt will make him purr like the sexy beast he is, but I needed a break after working for almost ten hours on him alone today.

Not only that, I need to make a call I’ve been putting off since my dinner with Leigh a few nights ago.

The guys have long since left the shop, even if I could tell a few of them didn’t want to leave me here alone. It didn’t take much encouragement to get them to skedaddle out of here seeing that it’s a Friday night and they’ve all been talkin’ for days about hittin’ up Coops for some beer and pool. They should be used to leaving me here alone. I‘ve gotten lost in so many projects in the past that it’s not exactly a rarity, but I think they put up a fuss for show now, knowing that I would never take them up on their offers to stick around.

I take one last look at Homer, the Lava Red paint I picked for him making me want to lay my body against the hood and just soak in the beauty. In low light, he almost looks black, but the second the light strikes his sleek metal cage, red undertones burst free, making it come to life.

It’s hot.

So damn hot, I think I’ve fallen a little in love with the old guy.

“God, Homer, you sure are gonna turn some heads,” I tell him, patting the hood with affection.

Reluctantly, I turn from the sexy beast and walk to my office to grab a Coke, a snack, and my cell. I groan loudly when my tired body finally settles into my desk chair, taking a bite of my Pop-Tart while I stare at my phone.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach and the Pop-Tart I’m chewing on suddenly tastes more like cardboard. I’m being ridiculous right now. A big baby.

“Come on, Quinn,” I tell myself sternly. “You’re a hell-raisin’ badass. Just pick up the phone and throw the stupid ball you’ve been bouncin’ in your court back in Tate’s.”

Tossing my half-eaten snack down, I snatch my phone up and connect the call before I can give myself a second to freak out more than I already am.

“This is Tatum Montgomery,” the deep, velvety voice answers.

The same voice I’ve been unable to stop thinking about for days. God, he sounds delicious. If that’s a thing, that is. Seriously, his voice should be considered illegal. Panty-melting illegal.

“Hello?” he calls, clearly impatient, if his tone is anything to go by.

Shit, I haven’t said a word. I bet I’m breathing heavy. Like a creepy stalker or something.

“Hey,” I squeak, rushing the word out to quiet the panic Inner Quinn is going through.

“Quinn,” he breathes. Literally. He breathes my name in the most sensual way, and I feel it go straight to my gut.

“Okay, bucko, so in an effort to keep a whole full-disclosure thing goin’, I’m goin’ to have to ask you to not say my name like that. It makes me think thoughts that don’t belong in my head at this juncture in our . . . reunion.”

Deep, sexy-as-hell, lady-part-tingling grunts of laughter follow.

“Add that laugh to the list of things you can’t do too,” I pant. Could this get any worse?

“Anything else, Grease?”

I pause, looking out into the shop floor while I think about that one. I’m sure if I really thought about it, though, I could make a list of things that make my body burn. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I rush out, thinking that there will never be enough time in the world for me to list them.

“You do that,” he chuckles.

“Maybe it’s the phone,” I mumble to myself. I don’t remember his voice sounding this . . . erotic in person.

“What, Quinn?”

“Oh, God. Seriously, only you make me stupid. No one else does this shit to me, but you just short somethin’ out in my head that doesn’t work right. I’m at the shop. Do you have time to meet up and talk?”

More deep rumbles of laughter.

Kill me now.

“Just finishin’ up at the office, Quinn. I’ve got one more patient file I need to update and then I’ll head over. Sound good, darlin’?”

I squeeze my legs together, instantly regretting it when the seam of my jeans hits my swollen and very needy center. “?‘Darlin’ ’?” just got added to that list too.”