Luke: A West Bend Saints Romance (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

Autumn

Ugh.  That guy.
  What a juvenile, immature dickhead.  He's so damn…
cocky
, shit-sure of himself with that stupid grin on his face and the
calm your tits
bullshit.  I bet he gets away with murder, just because he's hot.  He's that kind of a guy.

And he is hot…

Heat rushes through me, following the adrenaline and irritation that flood my veins.

Luke Saint.
  He's no saint, that's for damned sure.

He's also young.  Too young for me to be thinking the way I'm thinking about him right now.  I'm too old to be getting flustered and red-faced over some guy who might look pretty but has an ego the size of Texas.  I'm a mother, for goodness' sake.

And Pretty Boy is a total player.  That is something I'm a hundred percent sure of.  He's one of those guys who oozes sex from every pore of his body.

I don't know what I was thinking, going out there to see if I might be able to offer him a job.  The thought of finding a new foreman right now, in the middle of harvest, makes me groan out loud.

I haven't even made it all the way down the dirt road from the river where Luke Saint is camped out, before I see his truck behind me.  He flashes his lights twice before I slow down, pulling over on the side of the road even though I'm tempted to speed the hell up and just outrun him.

I don't get out of my car.  He can damn well come to me if he wants to talk to me.

I'll sit here behind the wheel, thank you very much.  Just in case I need to run him over with my car.

Luke saunters up to my car like he does this every day, and I roll down my window. "Did I forget something?" I ask.

"Your fucking name," he says, leaning with his arms against the top of the window.  "What the hell is your damn name, already?"

The way he says it, completely exasperated, makes me laugh.  "You chased me down because you want to know my name?"

"I'm curious," he says.  "It's a character flaw."

"Autumn Mayburn."

He nods, apparently satisfied.  "Suits you," he says.

Because of the red hair.  Like I haven't heard that before.  I don't even bother trying to keep from rolling my eyes.  "Is that it?" I ask.  "Can I go now?"

"No," he says.  "Who told you where the hell I'm staying?"

"Don't look at me like I'm some kind of psycho stalker chick who's going to boil a bunny on your stove or something.  I asked one of the firefighters and he told me.  If I'd have known that it was super top secret, I wouldn't have gone out there."

"It's not
super top secret
," he says.

"I'm surprised you didn't come out waving a shotgun."

"Shit, I'm just as surprised about that as you are."  He flashes that cocky grin of his again.  "Or worse.  You should be glad I came out wearing drawers.  I could have come out naked as a jaybird."

The thought of this man walking out of his house and greeting me, stark naked, makes me flush warm.

Oh, hell.  I'm turned on by this brash, arrogant, pretty boy who lives by the river with his dog in a trailer.  I officially have the world's worst taste in men.

"Well."  I tear my mind away from the thought of him naked and somehow find my voice again.  "I'm glad you didn't.  There's no sense in embarrassing yourself."

"Oh, there's nothing embarrassing about me naked," he says.  He's leaning with his arms on the top of the car door, casual like he does this every day.  "That's for damn sure."

I roll my eyes.  "Well, we'll have to agree to disagree, I suppose," I say.  "Are you satisfied now?  You know my name.  If you don't mind, I actually have things to do today."

"Like what?"  He doesn't even pretend to move away from the door.  Obviously, this guy doesn't understand subtlety. Maybe I should put the car in
drive
.

"Like, what do I have to do today?"

"Like, what do you have to do today, that's better than talking to me?"

"Pick anything," I say.

"Wash your hair?" he asks.

"Wash my hair?"

"Isn't that what women do?" he asks.

"I hope that's part of most male grooming routines too," I say.  "Take shower, wash hair, scratch balls, that kind of thing."

"I meant, isn't that the standard excuse women give when they're too busy for a date?" he asks.

"Yeah, if this were 1952," I say.  "Wait.  Are you asking me on a date?"

"What?" He scrunches his face up like he just stuck his finger in a light socket.  "I'm not asking you on a date.  There is no fucking
date asking
going on, lady.  And for the record?  I don’t date."

"All of a sudden I'm
lady
again?" I ask.  "You're like a broken record.  You're the one who brought up
date
, not me."

"I didn't bring up
date
," he says.  "You're not my type.  You're like, the exact opposite of my type."

Damn, he's on my last nerve again.  I guess you really can be that pretty and that damn annoying at the same time.  "Yeah, I didn't figure you were the type of guy that went for gorgeous, brilliant women."

He laughs.  "You're good-looking, I'll give you that.  But I don't do high-maintenance."

I bristle at his words.  "I don't even know what part of that statement is more insulting."

"What do you mean?" he asks.  "I said I'd concede that you're good-looking."

"That's very generous of you."

"Why did you show up at my place, anyway?"

"I can't, for the life of me, think what in the hell possessed me to come out here," I say, putting the car in drive.

He stands up and grins at me again.  "I've heard your memory goes when you get older," he says.

I press the gas pedal and pull out around him, kicking up a cloud of dust on the dirt road as I drive away.  When I glance in the rear view mirror, he's laughing and shaking his head as he stands there watching me.

What an irritating, arrogant prick.  I'll just have to find a foreman the old-fashioned way.

By the afternoon, I'm grumpy and no closer to finding a foreman than I was in the morning.  One of the orchard workers I trust says he has a cousin -- twice removed or something – a couple of towns over who might be a good fit, but other than that, I'm coming up blank.

And, I realize as I hear Olivia beginning her end-of-nap cry in the next room, now I've just run out of naptime too.

"Hey baby doll, how was your nap?"  I chatter to her as we go downstairs and I make her a snack while she tries unsuccessfully to open every cabinet door in the kitchen she can reach.  I set down a pan of uncooked rice and beans and some measuring cups in the middle of the floor for her to play with, while I take ingredients for dinner out of the fridge.

When the doorbell rings, I scoop Olivia up before she can protest, and yank it open, expecting one of the guys working out in the orchard.  But it's not.  "You."

"Aw, now, you're not the least bit pleased to see me?"  Luke Saint gives me that half-grin, the one I bet drives all the women his age wild.

"What do you want?"  I ask.  "Look, I have a pot of water boiling in the stove, so you need to walk and talk."  I don't wait for him, but he follows me to the kitchen, where I set Olivia back down to play with her cups and rice.

"I thought you were busy today," he says.  "With all your things to do, like wash your hair."

My hand immediately goes to my head.  "I did wash my hair, thank you very much.  I also showered, for your information.  Which doesn't always happen, actually, not with toddler." 
Do I not look like I showered? 
I'm about to sniff my armpits just to make sure, but he laughs.

"I believe you," he says.  "You look clean."

"Uh…
thanks
."

"Your kid is playing with uncooked rice.  On the floor."

"No kidding," I say.  "It keeps her entertained while I cook dinner."

"What if she eats it?"

"I'm mostly positive she won't die from eating raw rice," I say.

"Mostly," he says, looking at me warily.

"Have you ever even met a child before?" I ask.  "Scratch that part.  I'm pretty concerned that you've not had very much human interaction, period."

"I've had a ton of human interaction, for your information," Luke says, sauntering over to the kitchen counter where I'm peeling potatoes.  "Mostly with females, obviously."

I cough.  "Obviously?"

"I can be charming," he says.

"Color me shocked."

"Not with you," he says, wrinkling his nose as he looks at me.  "Give me that peeler.  I'm surprised you haven't ripped half the skin off your hand already, the way you're doing that."

I hand him the peeler and potato.  "There you go, hotshot.  You think you can do a better job?  Go right ahead.  What do you mean, you can be charming but not with me?"

"You're not my type," he says, taking the peels off the potato much more easily than the way I'd been mangling the poor vegetable.  "So I don't have to turn up the charm."

I don't bother to hold back my snort.  "You're telling me you've got game?"

"Red, I've got more game than you'd know what to do with."

I groan.  "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he asks.

"Call me Red," I say.  "Give me a nickname, some stupid jock thing.  Or frat thing.  You're in college or something, right?"

"You think I'm a jock or a frat guy?" he asks.  "Wait, how old do you think I am?"

"I don’t know," I say.  "Twenty.  Twenty-one.  How old are you?  Oh, hell, don't tell me you're eighteen."

"Twenty-four," he says, puffing out his chest.  "I've been out of college for three years, thanks.  I mean, I haven't been out of college for twenty years like you or whatever."

"I'm thirty-four, not fifty-five."

"Honestly, I'd have pegged you for late twenties," he says.  "You've really aged well."

"I've aged well?" I ask.  "Like a cheese?"

"More like a wine," he says.  "Wine sounds better than cheese."

"Is this the famous
game
you were talking about earlier?" I ask.

"I'm doling it out in small increments," he says.  He turns, chopping the potatoes into cubes and dropping them into the water.  "I wouldn't want to overwhelm you with the ol' Luke charm.  Hope you wanted these in the water; I just assumed."

"I don't think there's any danger of my being
overwhelmed
with the Luke charm," I say, watching as he begins to wash and chop vegetables, rummaging around my kitchen cupboard drawers like he owns the place.  "Is there something you're looking for?"

"A knife," he says.  "Your knives are all wrong.  Don't you have any basic cooking tools?"

"Yeah, I have a knife right there."

"This is a steak knife, and it's not even sharp.  How do you make food?"

"I use the knives I have," I say.  "What's the problem?"

He stops and stares behind me, and I follow his gaze to Olivia, who's bent over, licking the tile floor.  "Is that normal?  That doesn't seem normal."

"Oh my God," I sigh the words.  "She's a toddler.  They lick floors.  Olivia, stop licking the floor."  Olivia has her tongue pressed flat against the tile now.  I'm almost positive she's doing it just for dramatic effect.

She's probably actually a genius baby who can understand what we're saying and is just screwing with us,
I think as I open the fridge to pull out her sippy cup of milk so I can distract her from French-kissing the floor in front of the way-too-hot, way-too-young obviously not-that-bright firefighter who's standing in my kitchen peeling my potatoes.  That practically sounds like an innuendo.

"You're blushing," Luke says, gesturing toward me with the peeler in his hand, like it's a pointer or something.  "Did she embarrass you?"

I hand Olivia the sippy cup and she rolls onto her back and thanks me.  "Did you hear that?  That was a
thank you
.  She even has manners.  Did she embarrass me by licking the floor?  No, of course not."

Luke is looking at the chicken I've marinated, a look of disgust on his face.  "Is this marinated in salad dressing?"

"Yeah.  The recipe was on the back of the bottle."

He makes a strangled sound, and I start to walk toward the counter, but he shoos me away.  "Back off, Red," he says.  "You lost your kitchen privileges."

"This is
my
kitchen."

"Which is why you should lose your kitchen privileges," he says.  "Since you should be ashamed of yourself and your poor culinary skills.  Go over there.  Play with your kid and her rice or whatever and I'll fix this mess."

"Do you usually just waltz into strangers' homes and start cooking them dinner?"