Page 17 of Catching Sparks

The sun is just peeking its head over the ranch house when I pull into Steele Ranch and wiggle my fingers at the men bustling about in dirty jeans and cowboy boots. Wade Steele tips his chin at me from the back of his horse, Kip, as I pass them at the stable and come up on the guest house.

Unlike yesterday, the lights are on, and a sleek black car is parked out front beside a beat-up Ford. I laugh at the idea of Garrison Beckett driving that piece of shit.

Having grown up in Cherry Peak, I spent plenty of time at Steele Ranch long before Anna came into the picture and have seen that truck sputter along these roads for decades. Brody’s probably spent a thousand hours beneath the hood of that thing to keep it running during his breaks back home.

I take my foot off the gas in my car, slowing down when Garrison steps out of the house. He takes a long look at the black sedan before glaring at the truck like it’s single-handedly responsible for everything that’s ever gone wrong in his life. He’s not wearing wrinkle-free dress pants and a button-up today, nor are there shiny leather shoes on his feet. No, I nearly bite my tongue off to keep from panting as I take in the tight jeans and grey T-shirt with an old peewee hockey team logo stamped over the chest. He might be tall and lean, but his thighs eat up those jeans, and I hate myself a little for hoping he’ll turn around and flash me a peek at his ass. His hair is disheveled in the way that usually means he’s run his fingers through it too many times. I bet he’d look good doing that, and I hate him a little bit for that too.

The slam of a door has me jumping in my seat, snapping my head to the side to see Garrison now inside the truck, his hands curled over the top of the steering wheel. When the engine turns over, it’s so loud that it grabs the attention of a few of the ranch hands nearby. I roll my lip between my teeth, deciding against bailing before I get to see if he’s really about to drive that old thing.

The first time it rolls forward, it doesn’t make it further than a foot before it stalls. And the second time, it doesn’t even make it that far. His frustration is obvious, even from here.

I don’t know what it is about seeing his head fall heavily against the headrest, the truck continuing to idle, plumes of black smoke filling the air behind it, that has me shifting my car into park and stepping out. He doesn’t look up as I jog toward the truck, flipping my middle finger at everyone who’s crowded around snickering at Garrison.

“Get back to work before Wade sees you slacking off,” I threaten when they continue to stand and ogle him.

Garrison may be a dick, but nobody deserves to be laughed at. I know what it feels like to listen to people you don’t know judge you, and it feels like absolute shit. It doesn’t matter who you are or how thick your bravado is. It still burns.

“Come on, Poppy! Have a bit of fun with us.”

“Wade might come join us, not give us shit!”

The comments keep coming, one after the other. Wade might like to pull a few pranks here and there, but he’s no bully.

“Do you really want to try and find out whether you’re right about that?” I shoot back, my cheeks flaming red-hot.

The crowd of men quiets for a beat before Johnny, one of the youngest of the ranch hands and a good friend, pushes his way to the front and speaks up.

“If you wanna have a go at the guy, you should do it with your fists and not your loose lips. I think he deserves a fair shot around here.”

Pride runs rampant through me as I give him a nod and then turn back to Garrison. This time, I’m met with his dark stare. Even through the windshield, I can see the concoction of emotions blazing through his eyes. I only offer him a slight smile and carry on toward him.

He can be pissed off that I defended him. It doesn’t make an ounce of a difference to me. I would have done it for anybody. Sir Douchealot or not.

Garrison tracks me with that heavy stare as I walk toward him, not stopping until I reach the truck door. I set my hands on my hips and wait silently as he cranks down the window.

It takes too much effort not to gasp at how beautiful he is this close up. His thick brows are drawn harshly together over eyes that can’t decide if they want to be green or brown. The mix of colour is intriguing, the kind of mystery you want to chew on until you figure out.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low and dull.

I clear my throat and set my hands on the upper rim of the window before leaning slightly against it to look inside the cab. “Is it giving you trouble?”

“I can’t drive it.”

That would explain it. “Shit. Want me to call Brody over? He’ll get it fixed up for you.”

I reach into the front pocket of my jeans for my phone but freeze when I feel warm, smooth fingers curve around my wrist, the tips of them overlapping.

“Brody can’t fix this problem,” he grinds out, and the demand for him to release me dies in my throat. “I can’t fucking drive stick.”

“Actually?” I blurt out.

He drops my wrist, and I yank my hand back to my body. “Do you think I’d be here right now making a fool out of myself if I did?”

“You could just say no. I’m not judging you. There’s no need to be so defensive,” I say tightly.

“My apologies.”

The corner of my mouth tilts. “Alright. Where are you heading to in this thing?”

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