Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

“Sorry about that,” I tell Ella when I reach our table, picking my napkin off the seat before settling back into the chair across from her, placing it back in my lap. “You ordered wine?” I ask, looking at the two full glasses on the table and the bottle with the expensive French label chilling in a bucket to my right.

“I figured we could relax a little. It’s been a long week.” She reaches across the table, her small hand about to close around one of mine, but I pull back before she can get purchase.

“I’m on call, Ella,” I mumble, pushing the glass closest to me away and picking up my water.

She shrugs, pulling her arm back and winking before taking a delicate sip of her own wine. “Well, you’ll have to cut me off after two, Tatum. Anything more than that and I won’t be any good for you tonight.”

“Stop, Ella. You know damn well I didn’t come out tonight as some sort of prelude to fuckin’. I’m only here for another month before my resignation is effective, but even without me movin’ back to Texas, whatever you think is goin’ on here isn’t. We’ve talked about this.”

Something flashes in her eyes, but it’s gone a moment later. Her perfect mask falls back in place. “Oh, Tatum, I understand. Goodness, your accent sure does come back when you’re heated. Anyway, I had hoped dinner might lead to a little good-bye fun, but you’re right, I’m sorry. You can’t blame a girl for trying though, Tatum. I mean, look at you.”

I feel one of my brows arch at her continued attempts at flirting, but I ignore it in the hope that she will take a hint. “I’d prefer the remainder of my time here to pass without any more weirdness between us. I’m not goin’ to deal with you playin’ the role of a jealous girlfriend when you know damn well the time we spent together don’t equal a relationship, especially when I made it clear I don’t do commitment. We’re colleagues and that’s all.”

She clears her throat. “Of course. I’m sorry. I thought it was just fun and games.”

The waiter steps up to the table and sets our plates down and I wave him off with a smile and a nod before addressing Ella again. “Let’s finish up our meal and I’ll take you home. I appreciate your understandin’, Ella, and I apologize if I did something to make you believe this was somethin’ it isn’t.”

She picks up her fork, digging into her salad with a smile. “Nonsense. Let’s put it behind us. Water under the bridge and all that. Tell me about this place you’re moving to.” She holds my gaze as she chews, and I relax now that she clearly understands the line I’ve drawn in the sand and seems willing to abide by it.

I cut my steak, take a bite, and savor the perfectly cooked meat before telling her all about Pine Oak, not even attempting to hide the excitement in my voice. Ella smiles and nods in all the right places, engaging in the conversation with rapt interest.

In another life—one in which I never knew Quinn Davis existed—Ella is probably the type of woman I would have ended up with. The daughter of two very affluent parents, southern and genteel, beautiful and always perfectly put together no matter where she’s going, and intellectually smart and driven.

The perfect woman for a lot of men.

But not for this man.

I live in a world where Quinn Davis very much exists, erasing any possibility of any other perfect woman existing for me, ever.

My perfect woman is the daughter of a bastard, beautiful, an unpredictable sexy mess no matter where she ends up, and so brilliant and driven that she could race her jacked-up truck in laps around the Ella Fosters of the world.

I’ll grovel until my knees have no skin left on them. If I get back and find another man in my place, I’ll fight for her regardless. If she forgot how to love me, I’ll remind her. Whatever it takes.

No more regrets.

I give Ella a platonic smile over my water glass and signal the waiter for the check. It’s time to end this farce I’m stuck living and take back my life—and the woman who has always held my goddamn heart.





4


QUINN


“Love Can Go to Hell” by Brandy Clark

- -

Stupid. Clink.

Infuriating. Whack.

Good-for-nothing. Ping.

“You keep beating the shit out of that undercarriage and there ain’t gonna be shit we can do to put that old beast back together again,” Barrett, one of my lead mechanics, jokes gruffly.

“Yeah, well I don’t even want to put this old beast back together again anyhow,” I snap, pulling myself out from under the truck and standing, stretching out my aching back muscles. I throw my wrench over to the toolbox I had wheeled closer to the side of the truck I was working on, having dragged it over from the other bay in my private section of Davis Auto Works.

“Oh, QD, what did this neglected beauty ever do to you?” Barrett’s shoulders shake, a deep rumble of hilarity vibrating from his chest.

Ignoring him, I narrow my eyes and watch him walk around the old Ford, analyzing it with a critical eye.

“What’s the problem, QD? I’ve never seen you this fired up.”

I roll my shoulders and measure my words carefully. Barrett doesn’t need me to give him a handful of girl problems. He’s got enough of that at home with his middle-school-age daughters.

“Just got a lot on my mind, Ret. I knew this project was coming, but I figured I had some time before I had to deal with it. Last thing I expected was the damn thing showin’ up a few days after I got wind about it.” Indeed, only several days after I hung up on Tate and wished him good-bye, his paw’s damn truck landed in my bay, courtesy of Tank and Ret. Trying to separate the personal from the professional clearly wasn’t working for me whatsoever.

“This old man Ford’s truck?”

Forgetting my annoyance, I gape at him in shock. “Do you know any other F1’s in or around Pine Oak that look like this, Ret? Jesus Jones, everyone and their uncle’s brother has been itching to get their hands on this beast for years, but Fisher never wanted anyone to touch it.”

“Fisher Ford was always a cranky old geezer,” he grumbles. “Knew it was his, just got sick of watchin’ you throw your sass around all day. Whatever’s got your panties all twisted up, figure it out and stop bringin’ down team morale.”

“Team morale? Janet making you listen to those self-help tapes again?” I laugh.

“That woman’s gonna drive me insane, God love her.”

“I’m thinkin’, Ret, you might already be there.” I duck when he tosses a dirty shop rag at my head, laughing again when he starts pouting.

“You keepin’ the old flathead in there?”

I shake my head, walking over to look at the old F1’s original engine. “The outside of this beast needs love—lots of love—and Fisher might have tried keepin’ this baby rollin’, but I reckon time got away from him. It’s comin’ out. I’m pullin’ the 329 flathead V-8 outta Bertha instead.”

Barrett grunts, the noise a mix of shock and agreement, I’m sure. “Hear what you’re sayin’, QD, but be a damn shame to see you pull out something you’ve been workin’ your tail off to restore for a solid year now.”

“Yeah, well.” I sigh, already fed up with the day and mad that it’s not even noon yet. “Owner’s paying top dollar to fix this up and he said money is no limit, right?”