Single Dad Seeks Juliet

Garrett nods. And I get why. I sound believable and confident, and ninety percent of me says I am. Almost two weeks ago, though, that ninety would have been one hundred.

Which leaves me with one question.

Where in the hell did that ten percent go?HolleyWhen Jake steps down out of his truck in the bright, beating sunlight of Saturday afternoon, he’s never looked better. He has a trailer hooked to the back hitch with two four-wheelers strapped on it, but he doesn’t stop to do anything with them. Instead, he slams the door behind himself and starts walking in my direction.

Dressed in jeans that hug his ass but don’t look too tight, an aqua-colored T-shirt, and square-toed brown boots, he’s like the outdoorsy cover model on any lifestyle magazine—except better.

Maybe it’s because I went a full three days without seeing him, and my memory somehow blocked out just how handsome he is, but as he walks toward me through the parking lot, it’s like he’s backed by a heavenly glow.

Stop ogling and get it together, woman!

I turn to get something else out of my trunk—anything will do, really, as long as it gives me something to do other than drool all over my chin—and wait impatiently for his arrival.

I’m still poking around looking for something slightly credible when his voice startles me so much, I jump enough to bump my head on the trunk.

“Hey, Holl.”

I wince, and he reaches out immediately to put a concerned and protective hand to my head, pulling me away from the trunk.

Somehow, when I stand to my full height and look him in the eyes, my fingers are gripping a freaking tire iron. Nice one, Holley.

He glances down and notices it, and a tiny smirk makes one perfect cheekbone arch higher.

“Have some tire changing to do?”

I try to think of an excuse fast, but I really could use some more time. “I was, um, looking for my umbrella and must have mistaken this for the handle.”

I stop just short of slapping myself in the forehead.

Is that really the best thing I could come up with? Did I hit my head harder than I realized?

Part of me kind of hopes so, just so I’ll have a legitimate reason for that lame-ass excuse. Some might say you can’t put a price on a concussion, but I beg to differ.

Desperate to move on from my laundry list of embarrassing moments—the day has just started!—I throw the tire iron back in my trunk, slam it closed, and turn back to Jake, shading the sun out of my eyes with a visor fashioned from my hand.

“So…are you ready to do some four-wheeling type things and stuff?”

“Four-wheeling type things and stuff?” His lips crest into a tickled smirk, and I groan.

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

“Aren’t you a writer, though?” he pushes, and as much as I’d like to hit him back with some witty retort, that’s kind of exactly the problem.

“I’ll have you know that for some writers, words are so much easier to convey on the page than verbally, and I just happen to be one of them.”

He smiles then, a genuinely friendly smile, and then finishes it with a wink. “I’m teasing, Holley. You do just fine with words either way.”

“Can I take that to mean you’ve been reading the articles?”

He nods and then waggles his eyebrows. “And some of your old stuff.”

“What? Where are you finding my old stuff?”

He shrugs his hands into his jean pockets. “I might be a dinosaur, but I do know how to search the internet.”

Oh. Right. The internet. Somehow, I’d forgotten that little beauty existed for a moment.

Instead of verbalizing yet another blunder, I hum and nod, hiking the little backpack I put together with my notebook and my lunch and a couple other things like sunscreen and bug spray up on my shoulder.

“Think we should get those things unloaded?” I ask, and Jake nods.

“I’ll go do it now.”

As he heads for the trailer, I go to my back seat and grab the heavy quilted blanket I’ve brought for them and the picnic basket packed full of snacky-type foods.

It’s heavy, but I manage to hook it over my elbow, prop it against my hip, and hump its weight across the parking lot to where Jake is working diligently on taking some straps off the machines.

I watch as he works, and a bead of sweat runs down between my breasts. It’s hot out—it’s August—but I bet if you asked the weatherman to check, he’d say Jake Brent doing manual labor makes the heat index shoot up an additional ten degrees.

He glances up and spots me with the basket, and then jumps down to take it and its weight from me swiftly.

“Damn,” he says when he feels how heavy it is. “How much stuff do you have in here?”