A second burrito, an energy drink, and a couple of tallboys appear next to my lunch. “Add this to his tab, too.” Chance Robinson flashes his grin at me and then turns his attention to the cute blonde behind the counter.
The cashier looks to me for confirmation, and I give her a quick nod.
“Really, man?” I nudge one of the tall cans of beer he grabbed. “You prepping for happy hour already?” I ask, sticking my card into the reader. I should have gotten a bottle of ibuprofen and a sports drink to help with my hangover. I should seriously consider finding a better way to spend my evenings than drinking with my coworker.
He stretches his arms over his head before dragging one hand down his face. The sound of several days’ growth of dark stubble rasps across his palm. “I’m like a Boy Scout, man. Readyfor anything.” A shit-eating grin slides across his face as he winks at the cashier.
She’s all but drooling at his attention.Poor girl.
“Don’t bother, sweetheart. This heartless bastard is called Tin Man for a reason,” I tell her.
A set of keys skitters across the floor as I take a step back. I scoop them up and glance around. “Did that woman have her keys when she took off?”
“Who, Sleeping Beauty?” Chance asks, never taking his eyes off the chick behind the counter. “Go save the day, Clark. Get on that.”
I snag my lunch and walk toward the glass door. She’s leaning against the side of a dark red SUV, one of the small crossover ones. Her dark hair, piled high on her head, sways as she nods toward the store. Loose curls tease against the pale, creamy skin of her neck.
I push through the door and drop my aviators down over my eyes as I approach. “Ma’am, you dropped these,” I say, stepping off the curb. A medallion jangles against the key fob as I hold the keys out for her.
The kid throws me some serious shade, but the gorgeous woman cringes when she looks over her shoulder, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks pink. Black hair, sparkling blue eyes—she looks more like Snow White than Sleeping Beauty.
Gingerly, she takes the keys from me and hits the unlock button three times in rapid succession. “Thank you for that, in there. For everything really. I’m, uh… That hasn’t happened in a while. I’m… Well, just thank you.” She waves a hand toward the store and then me. A tight, nervous smile pinches at the corner of her mouth.
“You okay to drive? Need me to call someone for you?” The offer automatically tumbles from my mouth. It’s what I do. Swoop in, do a good deed, try to do even more.
“We don’t know anybody here. I just told you that,” the kid, Jake, says. Attitude dripping from every syllable.
“Jacob Wyatt Triplett, mind your manners and get in the car,” she says. No nonsense.
She comes across as a take-no-shit mom. But when the car door flies open, a white-and-black dappled hound dog lumbers out, wandering toward the back of the car before he stops and stares at me. It’s a little unnerving, the way he looks at me like he knows me.
“Damn it, Bronson. Get back here.”
She lunges around the car door and snags the dog by the collar, guiding him back into the car. The dog grunts and settles into the seat, staring me down. She cuts a warning look at her son and closes the door. She rests a palm on her forehead. Shoulders slumped beneath her oversize cable-knit sweater.
Defeated. This beautiful woman looks absolutely defeated.
The last time I saw that look was the day my world turned upside down and the pieces of my life tumbled all around me. I shake my head, pushing the ghosts of the past away and focus on the woman in front of me.
“You sure you’re okay?” I’m drawn to her. I want to press my fingers to the soft skin on the inside of her wrist again, feel the way her pulse sped up when she looked into my eyes.
“I am, and thank you.” She smiles and slides the key ring back and forth through the single key and fob, the medallion glinting in the sunlight. “I’m so sorry you had a front row seat to the shitshow I’m hosting today.” Another quick, “Thank you,” and she steps past, barely brushing up against me as she climbs in the driver’s seat.
With an awkward wave, she’s nothing but receding taillights turning at the corner by the time Chance saunters out of the store.
He taps at his phone with one hand as a bag swings from the other. “Out of your league, Clark,” Chance mumbles, using the stupid-ass nickname he gave me, as he glances up from his phone.
He thinks it’s hysterical to fuck with my call sign. The rest of the former SEALs we work with stick with calling me Superman. As if that’s not bad enough.
“Shut up, asshole.” I climb into my pickup—my baby—and run my palm across the polished walnut steering wheel, cool in the winter chill.
Chance folds himself in and drops his head back, banging it on the glass behind the bench seat. “She’s hot as fuck, man, but she’s got a kid.”
He’s just knocking it out of the fucking park with his observations.
“Saw that. Thanks for pointing it out though.” I rev the engine, hoping she doesn’t die on me.
Nothing more than a little hiccup, a minor belch of exhaust, and she lurches forward out of the lot before settling nicely into second gear.
