Page 2 of Buried Roots

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, this isn’t a sexist thing. I have a mother and three sisters who could kick everyone’s ass. But this road doesn’t see much action, and I can’t leave someone out here.”

“I appreciate that, I really do. But I won’t be stuck long—I’m handy.” That’s a stretch. I restore homes, so Iamhandy, but with cars, I only know the basics.

He raises a brow as he studies my face. “Handy or not, getting a car out of a ditch is a two-person job. At least.” He cocks his head and hitches up his voice a notch when he adds, “Out here, there’s no Triple A.”

“I don’t need Triple A. But thank you.”

His lips quirk up as they appear to search for a response. “Once I leave, you might not see another car for hours.”

“I’ll figure it out. I’m a New Yorker.”

“Ah. That explains it.”

My hand lands on my hip. “Explains what, exactly?”

“Nothing.” His mouth curves in a patronizing grin.

His amusement pisses me off. It’sreallyhard not to sound condescending when I say, “I’m sure you’ve got places to be.”

He hesitates before he hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Okay, then. I’m leaving.”

Our gazes lock, like we’re in a game of eye-chicken. That’s fine, bring it—I don’t mind studying his. They’re part ocean, part storm cloud—sparkle tinged with despair. Like mine. I don’t look away, don’t blink when I say, “I see that, and good for you. Enjoy your day.”

He steps away in defeat. “I’m really leaving this time. You’ll be out here in the backwoods. All by yourself.” Another step back. “When you could have a mechanically inclined, super handy guy give you a hand.”

I put my palms up. “Again—mechanically inclined, super handy hands right here.” I wiggle my fingers and paint on a smile. “Sir.”

“All righty, then. Good luck.” That grin is back. “Ma’am.”

I hate to admit it, but damn it, smug is sexy on him. Our gazes lock again, and I enjoy looking at his smile, looking athim. Forget eye candy—this country boy… or man, with distinguished light creases on his temples—is more of an exquisite eye confection.

And now, I’m staring. I attempt to run my fingers through my auburn hair, which I’ve forgotten is bobby-pinned. My hand gets stuck, and I try to play it off as a head scratch.

He waves. “I’m Owen Brooks, by the way. It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.” I’mnotgiving him my name. I point at his feet and say, “Nice neon socks, by the way.”

That smug grin is back when he runs a hand over his dirt-stained tee. “Pulling this look together wasn’t easy.”

I smile, and for the first time, it’s genuine.

When he turns to walk away, I catch a glimpse of his backside, a work of art so fine it belongs in the Met.

When he opens the door to his truck, a tiny bulldog comes flying out and rockets toward me. Owen yells, “Demon, no!” before looking at me with terror in his eyes. “Don’t touch him, he bites!”

“Aw, look at that baby.” In a flash, the dog is at my feet, rolling on his back to display his pot-bellied stomach. I give it a good scratch and say, “That’s a good Demon.”

“Demon, git back here!” Owen’s jaw is slack. He’s shaking his head, dazed, when he says, “I’ve never seen that dog nice to anyone. Including me.”

“Maybe that’s because you named him Demon.”

Owen’s palms go up. “That wasn’t me. The shelter gave him that name—appropriately, I might add. I’m fostering him until he learns his manners.”

Tongue hanging out sideways, Demon has his paws on my leg as I give his head a scrub. “Aww, they’ve got you in finishing school, huh?”

When Demon runs back to Owen, I give them both a wave. “Bye, Owen. And be gone, Demon.”

After the dog jumps in the white van, Owen steps inside too, then sits… and sits. This guy is seriously stubborn. He may be charming, but so was Ted Bundy. When I give Owen the hand signal to go, he finally starts his engine and inches away.

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