Page 8 of Big Dog (Lonesome Garage #2)

Chapter Eight

I ’m good, Deacon’s good, Violet’s good, Romy’s good. The garage is good because it looks like Hart Weston will be filling the new mechanic position, which takes some pressure off me. I have no reason to be stressing about an evening out with Romy and a night with her in my bed.

But the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end.

My time in the Rangers left me with a highly developed sense of knowing when something was lurking out of sight, and it is fucking dark out there right now.

The garage isn’t the problem. The shadows only lengthen when I’m around Romy, so I’m spending as much time with her as possible.

I’m not clueing her into the fact that I’m doing daily drive-bys of her construction site to shine some light into the corners to make hiding harder.

My beer with Deke included letting him know about Curtis Cort’s continued interest in Romy and her property.

We agreed something was up with him. Deke offered to put out his own feelers.

We grew up in Lonesome. There is absolutely nothing to make that former campground interesting.

Both Romy and Violet are new to the area and have no ties beyond me, Deacon and JD, so the trouble’s not coming from them.

The only thing that has changed is ownership of the property and my woman is right in the middle of it.

At least tonight, I can keep an eye on her. Jameson’s is an out-of-town steakhouse that has stayed in business despite the odds simply because the food is just that good. Taking her there is a statement I’m ready to make.

When I show up at her front door, I see that Romy is making her own statement, and she’s saying, “Fuck me now, Bishop.”

“You’re killing me in that dress, Romy,” I say after I catch my breath.

“Thank you. It doesn’t have any underwear lines. See?” She spins around to prove she’s not lying.

“Do you expect me to be able to climb behind the wheel after doing that?”

“You need to fuel up, Bishop. We have plans for tonight.”

We now have plans through Friday as well. I’ll call in sick and Romy can let her contractors go unsupervised for a day. “We should go. The faster we eat supper, the faster I can eat something else.”

I catch a glimpse of her face before she turns to lock the door, and I bite back a laugh. Romy Turner is blushing. This bodes well as to what I can expect in the bedroom. I’m looking forward to it.

The drive to the restaurant passes in a blink as we talk about the problems of staffing a business in rural North Dakota. As we pull up to Jameson’s, she tells me she’s looking for a local Christmas tree farm and asks if I have any recommendations.

“It’s August,” I say.

“I know. I’m so late.”

She’s not joking. I never have a tree. I have a string of lights for outside the house, and some Christmas towels for the kitchen if I can remember where I put them. I foresee a garage wall lined with half a dozen boxes of ornaments and holiday decorations in my future. I like it.

Jameson’s is a nice restaurant, about as high end as you can get out of a city. Tablecloths and linen napkins, wait staff in button-down white shirts, wine glasses as part of the standard place setting. It says that tonight is something special.

Every course is a revelation, from learning that Romy will avoid olives at all costs to the fact that she considers a steak made from sliced cauliflower to be an abomination of an entrée.

I’m eagerly awaiting what she has to say about dessert when the hair on my neck prickles and a literal shadow falls across our booth.

“Rosemary, what a nice surprise. I didn’t expect to see you here.” It’s Curtis Cort in a suit that costs more than I make in a month. Romy’s mouth turns down into a frown but that doesn’t stop him from plowing ahead. “Perhaps I could have a minute to talk a little business with you.”

She exhales through her nose. Then she reclines into her chair and waves her hand, giving me the go-ahead to deal with this clown once and for all.

I rise. I’m a good four inches taller and eight inches wider than Cort.

When he looks up at me, we both understand that I could take him with one hand tied behind my back.

For the sake of a nice evening out with my woman, I give him one last message.

I stick out my hand, with a loud and jovial “Cort!” and crush his fingers with a long-lasting and over-enthusiastic shake.

“Sorry that Romy turned down your offer on the property, but as the lady said, she just isn’t interested in entertaining any offers.

You gave it your best shot. As you can see, we’re on a very special date here, and I’m sure you are too, so let’s not let business interrupt our nights any more than it has, okay, good buddy?

” I slap his back heartily as I turn him around, and he jerks under the blows.

“I’ll see you around town, Cort. Have a good night. ”

He has no place to go except away. Romy has her face buried in her water glass. When she lifts it, I can see it’s purple from holding her breath trying not to laugh. “Good buddy?” she repeats.

“He went away and we didn’t get ejected from the restaurant or arrested, so the rest of our evening is still on,” I say.

I try to match her humor but I know I only postponed the inevitable.

Romy is right; there must be much more to her property purchase than meets the eye.

Whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs somebody to watch her back. I only hope she lets me have the job.

“Speaking of the rest of the evening, the cheesecake looks amazing, but we should save it for next time. I think you told me that you had dessert waiting back at your house.”

“I did?”

“Maybe it was me. Maybe I’m telling you that you have dessert waiting back at your place.” Her tongue darts out between her cherry red lips.

I’ve tasted those lips. I’ve had to wait a week to taste the rest of her again. “Oh, that dessert. I’ll get the check.”

The drive home is seven minutes shorter than the drive there and it has nothing to do with traffic. “Nice place, Mr. Dobermann,” she says as we pull up.

“You should see the bedroom.”

“I’m trying!”