Wes tried to place her but couldn’t land on anything. “Um…”
“I just put in a call with your boss to see if you were available for another party,” she went on. “She said she’d have to check and gave me some song and dance, but I told her we weren’t doing it unless it was Roman. We wouldn’t settle for anyone else. And now, here you are!”
Rebecca sent him a questioning look as all of Wes’s oh-fuck alarms went off.
It was Penis Hat.
He found his voice. “Excuse me, but I’m having dinner with—”
But the woman wasn’t listening to him. “So I have a friend who just got engaged, and she would love you. I mean who wouldn’t love a hot, shirtless guy cooking for them, right?” She did some sort of nudge-nudge, wink-wink pantomime. “But I was thinking a pool party. Could you do it poolside in a swimsuit? Maybe one of those Michael Phelps numbers. She would adore that.”
Wes closed his eyes, the fuck-my-life thunderstorm raining down upon him and his dignity draining off toward the gutters.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca said, her tone sharp as a meat cleaver. “I don’t know who you are or what exactly you’re going on about, but we’re in a private conversation, and I don’t remember you being invited. Do you mind?”
Penis Hat made a choked sound, and Wes’s eyes popped open.
Rebecca had cocked an eyebrow at the woman and was giving her a look that would make just about anyone get to their knees and apologize.
The woman’s lips puckered. “Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
“No, of course you didn’t because you’re too busy gawking at my friend and announcing his private business in a public place,” Rebecca said, lawyer voice in full effect. “Would you like me to get a bullhorn so you can talk even louder, or are you done falling over yourself and interrupting our dinner?”
Wes bit back a laugh. Well, damn, lawyer girl.
The woman bowed up like she’d accidentally sat on a penis hat, and her face paled. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m all booked up,” Wes said, cutting her off and peering at Rebecca. “For the next few months. You’ll have to find someone else.”
He could feel the woman looking at him, but Wes’s attention was still on the lawyer.
“Well, pardon me then,” the woman said tartly. “So sorry to bother you.”
Rebecca nodded as if to say, You should be. Now remove yourself from my line of sight.
Wes looked back to the woman and she stared at him, her eyes pleading for intervention, but he shrugged. She was on her own.
Penis Hat huffed and stalked off, muttering a few choice words as she went, her high heels sinking into the soft grass.
Rebecca finally looked Wes’s way, holding his gaze, ice and fire wrapped up in one prim package. She took a long sip of her drink, her expression as calm as could be. For some reason, that cool, above-it-all demeanor—along with her quick dismissal of the woman—made him a little hard.
She set her cup down. “I’m not sure I even want to know.”
He adjusted the front of his jeans beneath the table, trying to will away that unexpected but potent reaction to Rebecca and her suffer-no-fools attitude. “Excellent. Because I definitely do not want to tell.”
She tore off a piece of pita bread and dragged it through the hummus, her evaluating gaze still on him. He could almost hear the gears turning in her head, and the sound was deafening.
“Okay, I lied,” she said between bites. “I won’t be able to stop wondering what she was talking about, and that means you must tell me right now or you risk me going into full lawyerly interrogation mode. You have no shot against that. Spill, Michael Phelps.”
He cringed, and his unwelcome hard-on died a quick death. “It’s nothing. I did a private chef thing for a friend.”
Rebecca looked unmoved. “Uh-huh. Which doesn’t explain why that woman was talking to you like you were her own personal stripper. What kind of private chef-ing is this?”
He sighed and stabbed a bite of cucumber with more force than necessary. “My friend, Suzie, who is both brilliant and ridiculous, has a new business and asked me to fill in for someone who was sick. They work bachelorette parties and such. It’s called Shirtless Chefs.”
“Shirtless Chefs?”
“Yes.”
“Shirtless. Chefs.” Rebecca bit her lips together, her eyes sparking with trapped laughter.
He waved his fork around. “Go ahead. Do what you need to do. I don’t want you to pull a muscle from all that restraint.”
A snort escaped her, and then a laugh followed it. “I’m sorry.” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin, not doing a good job of covering her obvious amusement. “But that’s real? Women hire you to cook without your shirt on?”
“It’d be a really shitty business name otherwise.”
She grinned. “And you cooked for that woman while half-naked?”
He shrugged. “It was a burn hazard and a little cold, but it paid well.”
Her laughter was light and melodic. Delighted even.
He wanted to rewind time.
“I hope it pays well. Based on how that woman was looking at you, I’d say it’s a very high-risk work environment. You could’ve been mauled,” she said with faux seriousness. “How much do you charge?”
He groaned and looked to the darkening sky. “Enough. Why?”
“Because maybe I’m in the market for cooking lessons after all.”
He waved a hand in a bring-it-on motion. “Go ahead. Get it all out there.”
“I mean, I’d certainly pay more attention if a hot shirtless guy was giving me the lesson. But no banana-hammock bathing suit. There are some things I don’t want to see while I’m eating. Things could fall out.”
He looked at her and cocked a brow, her words taking some of the sting out of the embarrassment running through him. “Oh, so you think I’m a hot guy, huh?”
“I didn’t say you. I’m sure there’s a whole menu of guys I could choose from.” She set her chin in her hand and gave him a cheeky smile. “I would need to peruse. Weigh the options. Gauge my mood. Do I want dark and broody guy? Or surfer guy? Or—”
He tossed a cucumber chunk at her.
She dodged it, eyes bright. “So you’re being serious. This is an actual thing.”
“It is a thing. Though I hope to God there is no menu of men. But the last time I saw that woman, she was wearing a hat shaped like a penis, and I was teaching her and her friends how to make big, meaty balls.”
“Big, meaty…” A full laugh burst out of Rebecca, one that seemed to echo around the park and warm him from the inside out.
He couldn’t help it. He laughed with her.
She dabbed at her teary eyes with a napkin once she got her composure again. “Oh my God. That sounds both hilarious and painful. And like something Kincaid would be all over. She may get engaged just to have a party like that.”
“And you?”
“Me, what?”
“You said you’d hire a shirtless chef.”
She shook her head and lifted a hand. “I was kidding. I would never.”
“No?”
She made a sour face. “No. I have a high aversion to paying some guy to act interested in me. I don’t want pity flirting.”
“Pity flirting?”
“You know what I mean.” She took a bite of her sandwich.
He frowned. “No, I don’t.”
She waited until she’d swallowed her food and sipped her drink. “Yes, you do. It’s like the whole concept of a strip club. Or even something as simple as a bartender who’s being flirty just to get a good tip. I feel like in their head, they’re really making fun of you. Oh, look how easily I can fool this clueless chick into thinking I’m interested. They’re playing you.”
Wes stared at her, knowing he had to be giving her a what-the-hell look. “Rebecca, no one would need to be paid to flirt with you.”
She gave him a skeptical look, the compliment seeming to roll off her unheard. “Did you flirt with those women at the shirtless chef party?”
He let out a breath. “Yes.”
“Were you interested in any of them?”
“No.”
She tilted her head in a point-proven way. “There you go.”
He grunted. “Does it help to know that I hated every minute of it? Playing them doesn’t feel any better than being played.”
“Really?” she asked, sounding surprised. “Pretty ladies fawning over you seems like it’d be quite the ego boost.”
“That’s not the kind of ego boost I want. I spent most of my adult life busting my ass and honing my skills to be a chef. I take pride in my food and running a kitchen. But there I was, having to do a job that depended more on my workout routine than what I can cook.” He ran a hand over the back of his head. “I’m sure the guys who work for my friend have a good time with it and are there because they’re into it. But for me, it was fucking humiliating.”
Rebecca’s eyes met his, sympathy there. “I’m sorry, Wes. I didn’t think about it that way. I wouldn’t have teased you about it.”
“I know,” he said with a shrug. “It’s really not that big of a deal. Just not my scene.”
“Why’d you do it at all if you hated it so much? Was it just to help out your friend?”
His jaw flexed, and he looked back down at his meal, prodding it with his fork. “I’m not that altruistic. She needed the help, but I did it for the extra money.”
“The money.” She braced her arms on the table, her attention feeling like a spotlight on him. “For the food truck Devin wants you to buy?”
Wes rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the frustration her question inspired. “For the idea of it. That thing will sell long before I save up enough to buy it. But next time an opportunity like that comes up, I at least want to have the ability to consider it. I don’t want to get complacent and stuck where I am forever. A safe and stable job makes my family happy, but it doesn’t feed that thing inside me that craves the adrenaline and risk of being in charge of my own business. I want to know that I can do it.”
“I get that,” she said, no jest in her voice. “I sometimes get this urge to break out on my own, start my own law practice, to know I could do it without my dad’s help or influence.”
“Why don’t you?”
She smirked. “Because it’d be stupid. I have a gig that lawyers dream of and am close to making partner. People would think I was nuts. Not to mention, my dad would be livid. It’s the family business. I’m supposed to take over a lot of his role if he gets elected. He’s running for state senate.”
“That sounds like a lot of damn pressure.”
She shrugged. “I’m used to it. It’s just part of the deal.”
He watched her, taking in the tightness in the shrug, the not-quite-believable nonchalance. That pressure was more serious than she was letting on. Wes understood pressure. He put it on himself. But he was driven in the opposite way—how not to be like his birth parents, how not to end up broke like he’d been growing up, how not to end up in jail. But even with privilege and money and an involved father, Rebecca’s pressure didn’t sound much better.
“I think you’d kick ass at running your own business,” he said.
She smiled. “Thanks. I think you would, too.”
“I’m not so sure of that, based on how things went the last time, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to try again.”
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop, her focus on him intent. “Will you show it to me?”
The question caught him off guard. “Show you what?”
“The truck. I’m curious to see it.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to hear what you think you’d do to it.”
“You want to—” A crazy thought hit him, and he pinned her with a look. “You’re not going to try to buy me a food truck, are you? Because I don’t care how much money you have or what kind of amends you’re trying to make, that’s not happening. I still haven’t agreed to accept the ovens.”
She rolled her eyes like he was the most ridiculous person in the world. “You’re not going to turn down the ovens because you want the kids to have them. And no, I’m not going to buy you a food truck. I’m not feeling that guilty.”
His shoulders sagged in relief. “Okay, good. Because you have a weird look in your eye.”
She smiled. “Maybe I’m just weird.”
He laughed, the heaviness of the earlier conversation lifting. “Well, you did threaten to tie me up and keep me in your imaginary basement the first night you met me.”
“See.” She picked up her sandwich. “Better be careful, Wesley Garrett.”
He lifted his drink in a mock toast but kept his gaze on her. Better be careful. She had no idea how right she was. Because the more he was around this woman, the more he was beginning to question why he’d shut down the possibility of having someone in his bed.
No, not someone, the baser part of him whispered. This one.
He didn’t want Rebecca’s money. And he didn’t need her apologies.
But he was starting to want something else.
He was starting to want it quite a lot.
chapter
TWELVE
After finishing their dinner, Rebecca rode with Wes to the lot where the food truck was being sold. It was much like the first night when he’d driven her to Dev’s restaurant, but the nervous energy running through her this time was there for a completely different reason. She was enjoying hanging out with Wes. Enjoying it too much, probably. But she’d asked him out to dinner tonight for more than good company, and she had a feeling that could blow up in her face. The bomb was ticking in her ears.
“It’s right over here,” Wes said, turning off the road and into a lot between buildings, orange sodium lights illuminating their way as they parked.
Wes came around to her side and helped Rebecca out of his pickup truck. She wasn’t the type to get or seek out a lot of chivalrous treatment. Her male coworkers treated her like one of the guys, which she preferred. But it was nice to have Wes take her hand and help her out.
He led her through the alleyway—the broken blacktop wet with unknown substances since it hadn’t rained in a while—and stopped in front of a chain-link fence. He pointed to a small opening where they could peel back the fencing and squeeze in. “This is the only way in after hours.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “So…an evening of trespassing?”
“Hey, you said you wanted to see the truck.” He rolled the length of fence back for her and smiled. “Afraid to break the rules, lawyer girl?”
She put a hand on her hip. “More like afraid of being arrested, attacked by a guard dog, or shot on sight.”
He chuckled. “Dev’s uncle owns the lot. There’s no dog. And he wouldn’t press charges or shoot us. We’re good.”
“Comforting.” She crouched down, thankful she was wearing jeans and flats, and stepped through the opening.
Wes followed behind and took her hand once they were both upright, giving it a gentle tug. “Come on, Adele is over here.”
“Adele?” Rebecca asked, trying to ignore the tingling sensation that tracked up her arm at the feel of his big, warm hand around hers.
“Yes. I named her. Feel free to judge me.” He guided her through an intricate maze of junk cars in the lot, like playing Frogger on pause. Forward. Side step. Forward, forward. Side step.
As they moved deeper into the lot, Rebecca glanced back over her shoulder, wondering if they’d ever find their way back. “Is this the part where joking about me being a demented ki
ller turns out to have been just a diversionary tactic to hide your own murderous tendencies so that you could get me alone and hide my body in a rusted-out Chevy?”
He scoffed. “Give me more credit than that. This would be way too obvious a place to hide a body. I’d take you out camping in the hills.”
“Comforting.”
He laughed and finally stopped in front of a banged-up school bus that was parked near the back fence. It looked alone and unloved, yellow paint peeling and a black-and-orange FOR SALE sign stuck to the grimy front window. Wes swept a hand out. “Behold the mighty Adele.”
He said it with a playful, dramatic tone, but Rebecca was watching his face, and there was no hiding the way his expression changed, the obvious pang of want hovering there. This was no joke to him. He was looking at the ugly school bus like it was the woman of his dreams. A woman who would never give him the time of day.
The impact of that stripped-down desire hit Rebecca right in the chest, made her feel hollow inside. Seeing that rapt, wistful expression, she understood exactly why Wesley’s marriage had fallen apart. He already had a true love.
She couldn’t help but be envious. Had she ever looked at anything like that? Had she ever felt that passionate?
She’d felt committed to goals. Determined. Obsessed, even. Maybe before today she would’ve said passionate. But no, she hadn’t felt what he was showing on his face. This was something different. She could feel it rolling off him, that magic of wanting something so much.
Rebecca let go of his hand and faced the bus, needing to shake off the empty ache it’d opened up inside her. She stared at the hulking beast and tried to see what Wes saw, tried to taste a little of that magic. “So…a school bus.”
“Yeah.” Wes stepped closer and patted the hood with affection. “She was. Someone started the process of converting it to a food truck but abandoned the project when they ran out of money or energy. A few of the seats have been taken out and there are hookups for equipment, but that’s about it. She needs a lot of love.”
Rebecca sent him a look. “She? A name and a gender?”
He pointed to the school district name on the side of the bus, Del Valle. “Clearly Adele is a she.”