A couple months ago, Cain had turned in his DEA resignation. His boss had tossed it right back at him. Then they’d had an honest heart-to-heart talk. Nothing like baring your soul to someone who regarded you as invincible. The boss had paid attention. Made notes when he told him how the last assignment had pushed him to the limits of honesty and anger and morality.
Then Cain had pulled the notepad to his side of the desk and told the boss how he’d been raised. How he’d learned early on that he had no one to rely on but himself. How, during the last assignment, it had dawned on him that there needed to be more to life than chasing bad guys. That somewhere there was something more for him. He at least deserved a chance at that.
The boss had moved the notepad to his bottom desk drawer and made him an offer. Take six months’ leave of absence. Stay in touch. Go find what you think you’re looking for, and then we’ll talk again.
Taking a leave of absence from the DEA hadn’t been easy for Cain to accept, made him feel like a quitter. Better than stepping over his drawn-in-the-sand line though. That would take the one thing he’d guard to his dying breath—his reputation as an honest man.
From behind him, the click of a woman’s boot heels on the floor caught his attention a second before Betsy walked up beside him.
“That took longer than I planned.” She eyed the last piece of pizza. “Looks like you were hungry.”
“Good thing you weren’t.” Cain stood and moved toward the register to pay. “If you’re heading out, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Out? I thought I’d hang around for a while. Maybe grab one of Joanie’s best burgers ever.”
Cain raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you couldn’t stay because you needed to be up early in the morning.”
Betsy’s lips parted before she blinked. “You’re right, I do need to get home.”
“You know, I can usually figure out what I’ve done to get the cold shoulder from a woman.” He tossed more than enough money on the register along with his bill. “But with you? I have no idea in the world.”
Reaching out, her fingertips brushed his sleeve for a moment before she pulled back. “It’s not you. It’s just...”
The silence hung between them and the background noise faded. He could get used to her touch real fast if he weren’t careful. Maybe it was best this night was over.
“Yeah, well...I believe you said that before. You let me know when you decide to tell me what it is.” He turned to leave, then turned back to her. “There is one thing I’d aimed to ask.”
“Okay?” She appeared to stop breathing.
“I’ve been wanting to do a little work on my truck, and maybe my motorcycle, but the house doesn’t have a garage. Would it be possible to rent some time in one of your service bays?”
Her expression relaxed and she blew out her breath. “Sure... I mean... No.”
“No?” Cain couldn’t believe her answer. All he’d wanted was a place to tinker with his truck and motorcycle. Nothing else. What was wrong with that?
She touched his sleeve again. “I mean no, you don’t have to rent the bay. Just stop by and use an empty one whenever you want.”
He sighed as loud as she had. “Thanks. I’ll get my tools out of storage and?—”
“Why? You’ve probably met Steven’s father, Earl Millerton.”
“Sure, we’ve talked over breakfast at Joanie’s a few mornings. Why?”
“He’s in charge of the Peyton Service Center.” She slid onto a counter stool. “I’ll tell him to show you around. There’s every tool you could possibly need already there. No need to bring your own.”
Betsy was all talkative now that anything personal had faded from this evening. The consummate businesswoman. Considering she owned the biggest dealership in mid-Missouri, plus the fact she was known for her honesty in the car business, he wouldn’t expect less.
“Sounds good. I’ll stop by next week.” He walked to the door and held it open for the couple leaving in front of him. “Hey, Betsy.”
She glanced across the room. “What?”
“Remember. Next Friday. Seven o’clock.”
Her cheeks twitched. “Seven o’clock, what?”
The room seemed to go stark quiet and even Joanie leaned out of the kitchen.
He pointed toward the pool table where they’d played earlier. “Rematch.”
