Page 4 of Big Dog (Lonesome Garage #2)

Chapter Four

I need a beer. I need several. I don’t want to think about Romy and the look that flashed across her face and her potentially hurt feelings.

Since I turned her down, she’s been true to her word.

She dialled it way the hell back at supper and was totally platonic as she talked about her business ideas and commiserated about how hard it was not to buy out the toy store for an adorable two-year-old niece.

I declined supper at Deacon and Violet’s that weekend.

Romy called in sick to supper the weekend after that.

The following Monday, Violet said that Romy had been down with the bug that had taken out Peony the week before, so her absence wasn’t retaliatory. She was everything she promised to be.

I don’t want Romy Turner’s fucking friendship.

I want her in my bed. I want the secret smiles she sent me when a contractor was trying to pull one over on her and failing.

I want the breathless sighs like after she’d taken a big gulp of the champagne I gave her.

I want to wear her like a hat with her legs spread wantonly in front of me.

But every part of me except my dick is convinced it’s a bad idea.

Besides, I couldn’t be with her even if I wanted to.

Which I decidedly don’t. Hell, I don’t have time to breathe these days.

Ever since the only other garage in a twenty mile radius shut down, the Lonesome Garage has been picking up the slack.

The extra business is great, but we don’t have the staff to keep up.

I’m supposed to be interviewing someone today, so we have some more help.

A second person has finally responded to our online ad for a licensed mechanic.

The first applicant - Jordan Pratt - is local.

He looks okay on paper, but he didn’t impress me or Deacon.

Since we are two of the three owners, and JD wasn’t in on the interview, that doesn’t bode well.

This second guy is new to the area. His references are impeccable, but nobody knows him personally. It’s a toss-up, but I’m hopeful.

I’m arm-deep in an oil change when I feel a presence at my back. Fortunately, the person has the good enough sense to announce himself. “Mr. Dobermann. I’m Hartley Weston. Call me Hart. We have an interview scheduled?”

Crap, it’s that time already. I was going to meet him in the office and be all professional and shit, but there is so much to do.

“Do you want to make this a practical interview? Check out my tire rotation technique while we talk?” he continues.

“That’s what I had planned,” I lie. At least if he’s a bust, I won’t have wasted any time.

He’s efficient, adept, and noticeably a lefty.

But his work is as good as anything I can do.

I like the fact that he’s ex-military. We know how to work with that.

Hart says that he left his hometown in Oklahoma because he didn’t want his folks to shoehorn a place for him into the family ranch.

He wanted to have a job that was a good fit from the start.

When I quiz him on why he picked Lonesome of all places to apply, he said that friends of friends had spoken well of the place.

Honestly, I don’t care that much. He knows his shit and doesn’t seem like an asshole, which already puts him in the lead for the position.

A familiar engine approaches, and Romy’s little car pulls up to the garage. “Hey, Bishop. I’m here to pick up Violet for supper and book club. Hello, new person,” she adds, looking over my shoulder.

Violet comes out of the office, her purse over her shoulder. When the women stand next to each other, it’s obvious that they’re sisters. “Did I miss an appointment?” Violet asks.

“Ladies, this is Hart Weston. He’s interviewing for a mechanic position.”

I see Violet and Romy look at Hart, then share a glance.

He’s clean-cut and fit. I’m sure women find him attractive.

I’m not worried Violet will try anything.

She’s completely into Deacon. As for Romy, she can like whatever type she wants.

Two weeks ago, taller and beefier was her type.

If she wants to move to skinny jeans and a baby-face a decade younger than me, that is her business.

“Payroll is done, and I’ll see you on Monday,” Violet says. “Have a good weekend, and good luck, Hart.”

I’m dying to ask about Romy but I’m not going to.

As long as she’s at book club with the girls, my imagination doesn’t have to worry about what she might be doing with Hart or any other guy.

Deacon has a daddy-daughter date with Peony tonight while Violet is out, leaving me on my own.

It feels like a great night to head to the bar and grill and have some beers with JD and his boys.

If I have enough, I can stumble back to the garage and sleep it off on the sofa in the apartment upstairs and not dream of Romy.

Four beers and a double-cheese burger and fries later, my plan is not working.

It’s early so people are still arriving to see our hometown country band, Low Bar, play.

Local real estate agent Curtis Cort and Jordan Pratt are at least two pitchers in and seem to be looking for targets.

I know that the Lost Souls on bar duty will take care of them if they take their crap too far.

Still, I don’t want to have to keep one eye on a pair of yahoos to make sure they don’t knock over my beer…

oh my fucking God, I’m a grumpy old man!

When the hell did that happen? And why does Romy think it is attractive?

My mood does not improve when Romy, Violet, and sisters Maya and April Green burst through the bar doors, giggling and grabbing each other like their laughter might knock them off their feet.

April is in a little black number while Maya has a similar dress in purple.

Violet has a cute polka dot blouse and jeans on.

Romy, however, is wearing a ridiculously short skirt, killer heels and a red sweater that is so tight it might as well be a second skin.

“Barbarian,” April insists.

“Pirate,” I hear Romy say as they pass me on the way to an empty table on the other side of the dance floor.

“Definitely barbarian,” Maya agrees. “No seasickness. Better hygiene because they have fresh water for bathing. And better booze.”

“Wait, barbarians have better booze than pirates? I’m going to need you to cite your source,” Romy says before they move too far away for eavesdropping.

I hope that conversation is a continuation of their book club meeting, but that raises new questions.

Does Romy not like boats? Should I have showered after work?

Why is Curtis Cort, of Cort Leasing and Real Estate, heading to their table?

Deacon and Violet have both mentioned that Romy dealt with a female real estate agent when she bought Camp Sunny-Lu.

He can’t have any business with her. Curtis is notorious for hitting on every single woman in a hundred-mile radius.

Four divorces later, he must have some initial charm, but it seems to wear off fast.

Curtis chats up all the women, pointing at the band on stage and receiving unanimous head shakes. He says something to Romy. She shakes her head again, and he leans in closer.

Beside me, JD slams his bottle on the table. “Seriously?” he snarls, just before he stands up so quickly that his stool wobbles.

“What?”

“Violet just waved me over.” He stalks over to the table. I follow because I’ve always got my cousin’s back. And because I want to see what shit Romy is stirring up this time.

“You okay, Violet?” he asks, wrapping his arm around Violet’s shoulder.

“I’m fine. Curtis was just offering to show Romy around town. She declined.”

“As I said, thanks but no, Curtis. You have a good night,” Romy says. She watches him walk away until he’s out of sight.

“Can you please not flirt with the local businessmen? It’s going to give you a bad name.

” The accusation slips out of my mouth before I can stop it.

It’s not like I have any input into who Romy sees.

Or does anything else with. “It’ll make things awkward when you need to look for a house or whatever. ”

“First of all, fuck you, Bishop. Second, I did not flirt with him,” she insists. Like she isn’t batting her baby blues at every man in the joint.

“It looked like it.”

“Then get your eyes fucking checked.”

“My eyes are fine.”

“Funny, they can’t seem to see the big picture here.

This isn’t about me flirting or not flirting with Curtis.

The real problem is that you got mad when you thought I was flirting with anybody.

In a bar. When I’m out with the girls. Like you have a fucking say.

” Romy glares at me. “We’re friends, Bishop.

Remember? Nothing more, and if you don’t get your temper leashed, a fuck of a lot less. ”

The ice in her voice gives me pause. She’s absolutely right. This is what I said I wanted. I’ll live with it.

My resolution lasts a whole minute before Jules carries over a new tray of drinks. “Don’t worry about it,” the waitress tells JD when he reaches for his wallet. “These are compliments of Jordan, as is the invitation for Romy to join him.”

Everybody at the table turns to stare at the tall, beanpole of a man on the dance floor. He holds out a hand and beckons Romy to join him.

When she laughs, I snap. Curtis Cort doesn’t get that. Neither does Jordan Pratt. Nobody does. But me.

I’ve been living in a world of regret since I told Romy I wasn’t interested. I wasn’t staying there a second longer. We need to come to a new arrangement. “Can we talk?”

“Nope. I’m going to dance,” she says. She stands and turns to the dance floor.

“No, you’re not.” I crouch, catch her waist on my shoulder, and wrap my arms around her legs as I stand straight. She’s yelling her damn head off, but I don’t hesitate.

I hear someone shout, “Barbarian!” as I head for the door.