He broke his gaze from her profile—pretty and feminine whether she wanted it to be or not—and took in the sea of cars and trucks, shiny and new. He didn’t want to do this.
Maybe he should have done the angry-sex thing after all.
She got out of her truck, all business and determination, and he sat in the passenger seat, sulking. He wasn’t proud of himself, but not embarrassed enough to get out. She wanted him to get a damn truck, she could do all the work.
You hired her, you fucking moron.
Right.
There was nothing wrong with getting a truck. After all, it would make him feel all rancher-like, driving around in one of these big-ass things, and that’s what he was here for. To figure out how to be a rancher. The motorcycle wasn’t practical for ranch life. It was a spur-of-the-moment response to not being under contract.
So, he had no idea why this was a thing. A thing he didn’t want to do. A thing that made him feel antsy and pissy.
He supposed it was like a promise. Trucks had to be taken care of. Like llamas. And women. Needing him for things he’d never been able to give.
A man in khakis and a shiny red polo shirt came out, all bright smiles and arm gestures. Nodding and scanning the lot when Mel spoke. She smiled. Her posture was relaxed. He hated how she could be two people. This light, breezy, friendly woman to everyone but him.
Which was enough to knock him out of her truck, ready to take some of the power here. He sauntered over to where Mel stood with the salesman, resisted the urge to scowl when Mel chuckled at something the guy said.
“What’s the word, darling?” he asked cheerfully.
Mel’s look could have probably set his face on fire, but the slick salesman smiled broadly, holding out a hand. “Good morning! So, we’re looking for a truck?” He shook Dan’s hand earnestly, cocking his head. “You look really familiar, sir. Have you bought with us before?”
Dan slung his arm around Mel’s shoulder, which tensed underneath his arm. Which, yes, increased his pissed-off desire to act on his innate douchiness. “Sure haven’t. You mind giving us some space to look around? The lady here sure does like to—” He brought his fingers together to mimic incessant talking.
“Absolutely. We are not one of those pushy, in-your-face dealerships. Take all the time you need, and just find me when you’re ready to test drive.” The guy gave an overly wide smile, then did the creepy “shake your hand too long and look you in the eye” thing before finally heading back into the pristine-looking office.
The breath whooshed out of him as Mel knocked a fist into his gut before he had a chance to block it.
“Hey!”
“I pulled it, bastard. What is your problem? Why on earth would you send him away? We’re trying to buy you a necessary tool for your ranch.”
“I don’t want to hear some spiel from some asshole. I just want to get this over with.”
Mel sighed, all world-weary and “you’re so stupid, Sharpe.” “The spiel is important. You have to figure out the best truck for your needs. You have to be friendly so he gives you a deal. Oh wait, I forgot who I’m talking to. Do I need to explain what deal and negotiate mean to you, moneybags?”
The irritable, sexually frustrated part of him wanted to be offended, but it was hard to argue. Money had never been a concern, an issue. It was there, like air and hockey and pretty women who usually fell all over him.
In the face of Mel’s life, her struggle, her complete disgust with him—except for that kiss—he couldn’t argue that he didn’t give a shit about deals or negotiations.
All he wanted to do was skate. Lace up and feel the air breeze by, a man in control and on top of the damn world. All your problems float away, don’t they, son?
They did. When he was playing hockey, they fucking did.
He did not want to have to ask Mel for advice, and he did not want to have to question why he’d turned her down when it was not at all what he wanted to do.
He couldn’t remember too many times he’d done the right thing, the good thing, when it hadn’t given him something he’d wanted.
Standing in a warm parking lot, he wanted to take a stick to every last windshield. So, he did his best to not give a crap. “Pick one.”
She blinked at him like he’d asked her to strip.
“What do you mean ‘pick one’?”
“You’re the expert. You know my ranch. You know trucks. I know jack.” He waved an arm to encompass the whole stupid lot, his whole stupid lack of knowledge. “So, tell me which one to buy. That’s your job. If you were me, which would you choose?”
She looked around the lines of trucks, something slackening her jaw. Her expression was…horrified. He couldn’t work that out. She loved making decisions—especially decisions for him—but she all but recoiled from the suggestion.