Kiss My Boots (Coming Home #2)

How do I explain to him how I feel? Men don’t get this sort of stuff, or at least that’s what my experience has taught me. Leigh does, and even though I know she would drop everything for me in an instant, she’s got so much going on with her upcoming wedding that the last thing she needs is my bullshit. Which is why I’ve done my best to put on a good front with her since I called Tate in her office two weeks ago.

“I’m not really sure. I feel like I did back when I realized he really had disappeared without a word. You know we got close that last summer. The same hurt I felt then when I would call his number only to find it disconnected is back. I think about how he always said nothin’ would keep us from our future—together—only to have him torpedo our relationship himself, and I feel rage. I’m sad that I’ve lived my whole adult life measurin’ every man showin’ interest in me against Tate and what he did. Now he’s comin’ back and the biggest thing I feel is fear because he still has such a powerful hold on me.” I take in a gulp of air, feeling oddly close to tears. “I heard his voice on the phone, Clay, and the years just washed away. I have to stay angry. If I don’t, I’m terrified I’ll give him whatever he wants just to feel the happiness I had with him. That fear turns into an all-consumin’ panic when I think, what if he casts his line, gets his hook back in me, then decides I’m not a catch worth keepin’ and tosses me back again?”

I glance over at Clay when he stops rocking. His expression is stony, but not angry. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it almost looks as if he’s peaceful yet determined.

“What, Clay?”

“Just waiting for you to realize what you just said.”

I think back, replaying my words, and then it hits me. The air stalls in my chest and my eyes widen.

“Just because it’s been years, sweetheart, doesn’t mean feelin’s are just gonna vanish. You two always did burn hotter than hell when you were together. Even before I made you sit down and tell me why you were takin’ him leavin’ so hard, I knew there was somethin’ there. Mighta been young, but you were never stupid. What’s your gut tellin’ you? Think hard, Quinny. Push back that hurt and fear. Really think about what it’s tellin’ you.”

“To run,” I whisper.

“Run where?”

“Straight to him.”

Clay nods his head slowly, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “Then I guess you need to cowgirl up.”

I feel some of the heaviness lift when Clay utters the saying we use between us when we’re facing something challenging. Cowgirl up, or cowboy up, is as good as a dare in our book.

“Easier said than done, big guy.”

“It’s only as hard as you build it up to be in your mind, Hell-raiser,” he stresses, his voice sure and true. “Take it one day at a time. Don’t think I haven’t heard about him gettin’ his paw’s old truck into your hands. He sure did move mountains in order to get that done all the way from wherever he is. When he gets back in Pine Oak, sit down and figure out what happened between y’all. After you have all the facts, then I reckon your gut’s gonna be talkin’ a lot louder.”

“For someone dead set on remainin’ a bachelor, you sure do know a lot about this kinda stuff.” I laugh, pushing through the renewed burst of fear his words settled on me at the thought of sitting down for a chat with Tate.

Clay chuckles. “Blame the Hallmark Channel.”

My jaw drops for the barest of seconds before I’m laughing so hard I have to clap my hand over my mouth and calm down to keep from peeing myself. Leave it to Clay, as always, to take the mountain of dread that’s been building inside me and level it to the ground.

Maybe he’s right, which shouldn’t be surprising, since he knows more about how close Tate and I were than anyone else—even Leighton.

All I know is, I can’t continue to feel this massive discord inside me. I might not have ever thought this day would come, but it has, and like it or not, it’s time for me to pull up my big-girl britches and get back in the saddle of my life.





5


QUINN


“Any Man of Mine” by Shania Twain

- -

Eric Church is blaring through the shop speakers, cranked up loud as hell so I can hear it from the spot I took up outside the back entrance of the bay I’m working in. I have the industrial fans blowing full blast inside, even if they’re just pushing oppressing heat around, cooling nothing but at least making it a little more bearable when I step back inside and out of the hot Texas sun.

My coveralls are tied around my waist and my black tank top is rolled up under my sports bra. Thankfully, I can get away with it because I’m not doing much but speed-blasting the rust on the back panels of the F1. I moved outside to ensure I had plenty of open space to run the blaster, but the heat quickly became too much to handle.

The guys around here don’t even bat an eye at me, used to me doing what needs to be done to counteract boob sweat. No woman likes boob sweat. Even if the guys were paying attention, my two private work bays are farther away from the hustle and bustle of the main garage floor, so they would have to go way out of the way to do it, and that would mean they weren’t working. There isn’t anything that chaps my hide more than my guys slacking off on the clock, and they know it. So they take care not to pay me any mind.

Every second of my time at the shop has gone into this baby—whom I’ve lovingly started calling Homer, because no truck this fine should be without a name. I’ve fallen in love with it, despite my best efforts to stay cool and detached. No can do. In the years since I took over control of D.A.W. I’ve stepped back from the day-to-day mechanical needs here. My boys are top-shelf talent, and aside from the customer consultations, I pretty much stick to the design end of our custom auto work. I’m here every day, but not because I have to be. I’m here because I crave it. Taking something like Homer and bringing him or her back to their glory days is my drug of choice. I wouldn’t be me without the scent of gasoline and grease emanating from my pores.

Before Tate rammed his way back into my consciousness, I was focusing all my time on another F1—the only other one in this whole dadgum town. Bertha is my baby, one that I found at a scrapyard so far past her prime, no one here thought I would be able to find her beauty again—but I did, or I was close . . . until now. Until Homer, I was maybe a week away from firin’ Bertha up and hittin’ the road.

I pause and stretch to work out some of the kinks in my back and look through the open bay door behind me, seeing her sitting in the next bay over, waiting patiently for me to get back to her. My girl is sweet like that. A part of me regrets making her wait even longer for our date on the open road, but I know she’ll forgive me. Well, she’ll forgive me when I rebuild another engine for her someday when I finish Homer, since he’s taking hers. Sure, I could have found another one for Homer, but when it comes to engines, I won’t put just anything in my babies. I all but build them myself, and that kind of labor takes time—time I wasn’t willing to give if it meant finishing Homer up before his new owner rolled back in town.