Tainted Gold (Providence Gold 3)

He’d just rounded the front of the truck when he looked at me and stopped, and I got a proper look at who it was without the mental image of me running for my life from an axe murderer blurring my vision.

It was probably only seconds, but we stood staring at each other without saying a word, so it felt like hours. Fifty million awkward and tense hours.

Snapping himself out of it, he shook his head and flashed a grin through his beard at me. Even white teeth stood out against the dark facial hair and made me catch my breath.

Holy greasing Jesus, he was hot!

Something I already knew just like I could tell you his full name, but I wasn’t going to stroke his ego by letting him know that. I met and spoke to customers every day, I could have a really selective memory for all he knew.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asked, his voice a smooth deep baritone.

Body shiver… another body shiver… and a full shudder that all led down to one specific place located in the southern region of my body.

“Um, the car stopped,” I replied and then winced at how dumb I sounded. “There’s fluid coming out from under it, so I was just going to take a look.”

I stepped back keeping the door between us as he got closer, something that he noticed and smiled at. When he got to where the stuff was travelling out from under the car, he smoothly knelt on the ground, no bones cracking unlike if I’d done it, and looked under it.

“Looks like you’ve punctured the fuel line, babe,” he groaned. “Dunno what you did, but there’s a decent hole in it.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, leaning my head back to look up at the bright sky. “Fuck a duck, ducky fuck!”

“That help?” he asked, standing up and wiping his hands off on his jeans, drawing my eyes to his legs.

He had nice legs, great legs in fact and the jeans he was wearing did really great things for them.

And for the package hanging between them.

Shrugging, I avoided eye contact with him by turning and looking up and down the road a couple times. “Nope, but then does swearing ever help?”

“Sure,” his response shocked me into looking back at him. “When you stub your toe, bang your head, slam your finger in a drawer and shit like that.”

He had a fair point!

My lips twitched as I fought hard not to smile.

“Name’s Tate Townsend,” he held his hand out to me. “I don’t think I know you?”

“Lilith James,” I replied, reaching my own out to shake his, acting breezy. “But my friends call me Lily. My dad bought The Bar six months ago.”

“You’re Petey’s daughter?” he asked, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. Either he was a good actor, or he really didn’t know who I was – and that stung. “Way he described you, we figured you’d still be in high school.”

My dad had suffered a heart attack two weeks ago and was now taking it easy, which left the running of The Bar to me and the manager, Annie. However, I was well aware of how he’d told everyone about his daughter from the day he’d taken the establishment over. The stories customers joked about were embarrassing and went all the way back to my first steps.

That little slip up, teamed with the look in his eye just screaming bullshit, clued me into the fact that he knew exactly who I was, so we were both playing the same game, apparently.

I was gonna play it better!

Nodding, I chuckled as I shoved my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “No, I graduated four years ago, but the way he goes on you’d think I still had four years to go.” Then I played my trump card. “Wait, you’re one of the Townsends aren’t you?”

Slowly raising one eyebrow at me in an ‘ain’t you special?’ way, he drawled, “Well, my last name is Townsend, so…” And then he went and actually said it, “Ain’t you special!”

Ok, so the trump card hadn’t worked. Sarcastic asshole!

Glaring at him, I reached into the car to grab my cell to call triple A or my dad, and groaned when I saw that I didn’t have any service.

“Shit,” I muttered, turning around and holding it up in the air, desperate for even one bar. With just one, I could at least send a text, and if I put my location – i.e. a road between home and town – saying my car broke down, someone could come and help me.

“Not gonna help, babe,” Mr. Helpy-Helperton informed me. “This is a dead zone.”

“Do those still exist?” I asked distractedly, still trying for that one bar of signal.

“Sure they do, right here!”

Glaring over at him, I lowered the phone. “Are you here to torment me? Was that why you were put on this earth?”