Page 3 of Big Dog (Lonesome Garage #2)

Chapter Three

I ’m hangry. It’s twenty after, and my supper guest was supposed to arrive at seven.

If he’s much later, I’m going to run out of vodka for the Chicken a la Vodka I have planned because I’ll have drunk it all.

It’s taking more than a little liquid courage to find the nerve to seduce Bishop Dobermann.

I’ve been working up to it. Ever since last month when Deacon volunteered him to help me find some contractors, Bishop has been on site at Sunny-Lu almost every day.

He’s been very careful not to take over when it comes to what needs to be done but he’s the first to offer a hand for any of the physical stuff.

He also stepped in with the creepy windows guy, which was unnecessary but appreciated.

Tonight is my turn to show that appreciation.

Now that all the contractors have been booked, I’ve invited Bishop over for a formal thank-you supper.

I’m sure he’ll show up and act like the perfect gentleman.

Dammit. I’m not sure where he got the impression that I’m a virginal princess who waved a wand and magically came up with the idea for a beauty salon, but I haven’t been able to shake his cool. It’s now or never.

I’ve got my third best date outfit on: a body-hugging but demure dress with a peekaboo neckline and three-quarter length sleeves.

It looks like it reveals a lot more than it does.

The blue is a shade darker than my eyes, which are perfectly made-up for maximum effect.

He’s not getting my top tier stuff until he officially asks me out.

The only thing not up to my usual knock ‘em dead standards is that I’m in ballet flats rather than heels, but I can’t pull those off when I’m working in the kitchen. I tried.

I’m ready to go. Wine and beer are cooling in the fridge. I have a specially curated classic rock playlist running in the living room that is heavy on ballads and light on guitar and drum solos. All I’m missing now is my date.

Finally, at seven thirty, I hear a vehicle pull into the driveway.

Dear God, that man just keeps getting better looking.

Bishop apparently did note the formal part of my text invitation because he’s in a buttoned-down collared shirt with a tie.

I have whipped cream in the fridge to go with my homemade pumpkin pie, but I should have bought a second container because I could eat Bishop up with a spoon.

The smile he was wearing when he climbed out of his truck doesn’t change when I open the door.

“Wow, Romy, you look pretty.” It sounds like a compliment, but what the fuck?

Pretty? What am I, his niece? I look spectacular.

The only hint that I might be having any effect at all is the finger he runs under his collar.

“You’re not bad yourself. Come in. Is that for me?

” I gesture at the long gift bag he’s holding.

He hands it over and I pull the bottle from the bag on my way to the kitchen.

I stop dead in the middle of the hallway.

I expected a decent bottle of white or red.

He brought champagne. I don’t recognize the name, but the label looks fancy and is written in French, and thick foil wraps the metal cage around the cork. “Bishop!” I exclaim.

“We’re celebrating, right? You have all the contractors booked that you need to open the salon now.”

I had just signed with the construction company that afternoon. Insulation and drywall are disgustingly expensive, but once I get the salon and spa portion finished, I can earn the money I need to branch into phases two and three for my Sunny-Lu empire. “How did you know that?”

“Bobby called to thank me for the referral. You’re on your way. So, congratulations!”

I know Bishop was invested in what I was doing but I had no idea that he was tracking things so closely. “I wouldn’t be nearly as settled into Lonesome as I am if it wasn’t for your help. I don’t know how I can thank you.”

I sit on the edge of my leather club chair and slowly cross my legs. I’m working it with everything I have. The last tool in my arsenal is to accidentally-on-purpose have my dress unzip itself and fall to the floor while I’m walking to the kitchen. I’m considering it.

Bishop blinks, then stands to look at my framed photos on the fireplace mantle.

Wow. Damn, but, wow. The man is not interested in me.

At all. I’m not the “hide from my mistakes” type.

I acknowledge them and move the fuck on like a fucking adult.

“You know, Bishop, I thought I was reading some attraction coming from you, tempered by a little reluctance. To be clear, I was trying to encourage it. I was hoping to get something rolling tonight because I think I could seriously like you. But if you are that uninterested in me romantically, I will back off and we’ll just have a straight up thank-you supper between almost in-laws and never mention it again.

” I mean it. It’ll be a goddamn tragedy but I’m not going to fuck up my family over some unrequited crush.

Me and my battery assisted boyfriend will get over it.

His back stiffens as I start to speak, but his shoulders slump when I finish like I’ve taken him off the rack. Which is an answer in itself.

“Message received. I won’t mention it again.

Thank you for the champagne. It’s very thoughtful.

I think I even have proper champagne glasses in the cupboard from when I passed my last aesthetician class.

Will you pour while I get the chicken dished up?

” I put both feet on the floor to stand, but before I can move, Bishop has crossed the room and is crouched in front of me.

He places a warm hand on my knee, then waits for me to meet his stunning green eyes.

“I was wrong,” he says.

“You’re entitled to your feelings, Bishop. I meant it. No harm, no foul.”

“You don’t look pretty, Romy. You look fucking edible. Like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. But this gift can’t be for me. I am much too old for you. You are fourteen years younger than me. That’s practically a lifetime.” His deep voice drops so much by the end I have to strain to hear him.

“Bishop, I’m not a kid. We both know that fourteen years by the calendar doesn’t always equal the same thing when it comes to life experience.

I left home at eighteen. I served four years in the navy.

I have a mortgage. I’m a business owner like you.

I think we have more in common than you’re willing to admit. The only thing stopping us is you.”

“It’s too much for me. I have to take you at your word and tell you that I’m not interested.” He’s practically panting as he huffs out the last words.

I lean closer until I can feel his breath on my face. Our lips are only inches apart when I say, “I’d believe you more if your hand hadn’t slipped up my thigh and under my skirt. They’re satin, by the way, which you’d know if you move your thumb a little to the left.”

“Goddammit!” Bishop jerks away from me.

“At least I know that my radar isn’t broken.”

“This isn’t right,” he tells me from his position back at the fireplace. “I’m too old for you.”

“I told you age doesn’t matter to me.”

“Deacon would have a fit.”

“Deacon doesn’t want to be with me. If he does, Violet will have more to say about it than I will.”

Bishop glares at me, but the corners of his mouth turn up the tiniest bit before his frown returns. “You know what I mean.”

“You don’t want to fuck it up for our families,” I say.

“Exactly. What if we try and it goes south?”

“What if it doesn’t?” I counter.

“I’m not willing to risk it. You said you’d accept that. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wear that dress again, though, to help me along.” I see the tension across his broad shoulders. He’s determined, much to my sorrow.

“I’m not going to change my clothes tonight, but you have my word that I’ll treat you like family.

” Thank God for Peony. My little niece will be a wonderful distraction at Thanksgiving dinner.

“As for the rest of what I said…I do need to deal with the chicken, and the champagne does need opening. I’d love to pick your brain about advertising options in the area.

” Business was a safe topic. If I can’t get what I want from Bishop Dobermann, I can at least get something useful.