I’m not sure if he means my hair, the gate, my life, or this rainstorm that came out of nowhere. Either way, I’m in no mood to make idle chatter.
“I sincerely hope you plan to repair this to its original state.”
Luke tilts his head, tossing the wrench from one hand to the other. “Yes, ma’am.”
For some reason that sets me off. Maybe it’s how the prison guards leer at me, calling me ma’am with a taunting lilt of false respect. Their hands drag my body, making the pat-downs more of a grope-fest than a safety procedure.
I feel myself gritting my teeth, preparing to let Luke Lovelin have it. “I also hope you don’t drive this recklessly when you’re behind the wheel of a Spencer Development vehicle.” Crossing my arms, I stare into his pale blue eyes. “Surely you don’t need an additional motor vehicle infraction on your record, Mr. Lovelin.”
My dart hits its mark, and I watch those eyes flash with anger. He knows I’m aware of what sent him to prison when he was just out of high school.
But instead of retreating, he takes a step toward me. “Ma’am.” He softens his tone when I flinch. “Hazel. Wasn’t me who plowed into your gate. That was Harry Hartman, on his way home from paying a visit to Mrs. Hartman at the old folks’ home.”
“Oh, God.” The blood drains out of my face. “Is he okay?”
“Yep.” Luke doesn’t step back. He’s so close I feel the heat of his breath on my cheeks. “Checked him over myself and stayed with him ’til the ambulance got here. The EMT says he’ll be fine, but I’ll visit him later to be sure.”
“Dammit.” I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure how this day could get worse. “I’m sorry. I just assumed?—”
“That I’m a piece-of-shit criminal who’s reckless and selfish and destructive when it comes to other people’s property?” The snark in his voice makes me open my eyes. “No, wait—that’d be your dad, wouldn’t it?”
Well now I’m mad all over again. “What do you know about my father?”
“I know enough, Hazel.” The soft way he says my name sends a strange pulse of heat through my core. “I also know you should get your sweet ass in the house. No sense in us both getting soaked.”
“But—”
“Go!” He barks the word sharply, and I back up so fast I bump into my car. “Get out of my way and let me work.”
Pressing my lips tight together, I try to decide what to do. Should I tell him to leave, and I’ll hire out the work? Should I stand here and argue that he knows nothing—nothing—about me or my family?
But words fail me for some reason, so I spin on my heels, getting into my car and zipping inside the garage where it’s dry. I kick off my shoes and pad through the house with bare feet, gathering things I think Luke might need. An umbrella, a tarp, a bottle of water. A fresh change of clothes from my father’s old things, the dry cleaner’s plastic encasing Dad’s blue Tom Ford shirt.
I grab some snacks, too, muttering the whole time about men who think they know me. Who boss me around, believing the fact that my father’s in prison gives them the right to treat me like shit.
And yes, I’ll admit I was a jerk to Luke. That’s why I’m stuffing these things in a waterproof bag, then beelining it out the front door and?—
“Ooof.” I collide with a thick wall of muscle.
Luke’s big, gloved hands catch my arms, holding me steady as I spit out a damp hunk of hair.
“Going somewhere?” he asks. Blue eyes pierce mine, and I’m hyperaware that my top is still damp and a little bit see-through.
“I thought you might need some things.” I drop the bag on his boots as he takes a step into my foyer. “What are you doing?”
“Coming inside to wash up.” Toeing the bag out of his way, he kicks my door shut and points to the powder room off to the right. “That all right with you?”
“Yes, of course.” My hands flutter helplessly to my sides. “There’s some dry clothing here and a few tools I found in my father’s belongings.”
“Already got what I need.” He stomps to the powder room and slams the door shut. Seconds later, the water starts running. “Your gate’s fixed,” he shouts.
“Oh.” I glance out the window and wow. “How did you do that?”
“We criminals tend to be good with our hands. All that brawling and fighting, making shanks and lock picks out of chicken bones.” He’s obnoxiously cheerful on the other side of the door. “Don’t tell, but I might’ve stashed one in your fencepost. Never know when I might need to come back and burgle your house in the dead of night.”
Asshole.
But he did fix my gate, so I’m grateful. “At least take the fresh change of clothes so you don’t go home soaked.” It’s the least I can do for his trouble. “I’ll leave them out here so you can—oh.”
