When We Met Page 3

  “Shut up,” she snapped, taking the handle of her case and following him toward the office of the motel.

  “Hey there, Miss Maggie,” Zac grinned, and patted the table. An elderly woman with a peppery bun tied low on her neck limped to the counter and beamed.

  “Zachariah, boy—you’re lookin’ more like your daddy every day.”

  Jo snorted at his full name, and it must have hit a nerve since he glared in her direction. “Thanks. I’ve brought you a long-term tenant.”

  The woman lifted her gaze toward Jo, the skin beneath her eyes peaking and pulling as her gray eyes studied every inch of Jo. After the inspection, Jo felt more like an outsider than ever before. “I see. This is the one I was told to expect, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You got a name, missy?”

  Clearing her throat, she stepped toward the counter. “Josephine.”

  “Ma’am,” Zac muttered under his breath, with a nod toward the woman who clearly had the name Maggie written on her name tag. If she wanted to be called ma’am the tag should have said ma’am.

  With a subtle eyeroll, Jo stepped closer and spoke slower. “Josephine…ma’am.”

  Maggie nodded. “Very well. You’ll be in room 201. It’s close to the office, I don’t want any shenanigans, you hear?”

  Jo scrunched her brow. This woman was even ruder than Zac. Was Jo to be viewed as the horrid, criminal villain the entire time? Did the man even admit she’d offered to pay for his stupid gas pump before he’d called the cops?

  “Jo will be on her best behavior, Maggie, don’t you worry,” Zac assured.

  “Excuse me,” Jo asked, scanning the small office. There was an old, rickety table with two wooden chairs painted different colors. She saw a questionable unisex bathroom at the back, and then the office. “Where is the laundry facility?”

  Maggie lifted one painted brow. “I don’t follow.”

  Jo’s cheeks heated. “I was told I’d be placed in a motel with a laundry room.”

  With pursed wrinkled lips, Maggie handed a gold key to Zac and wheeled around on her heel. “You’ll use the laundromat in town like the rest of the tenants.” Jo was positive she heard her mutters something about special treatment, but soon the office door slammed shut behind the old woman.

  “You insulted her,” Zac said, though he was grinning.

  “Insulted? How was that an insult asking about laundry?”

  Zac motioned for her to follow him outside. “Maggie hasn’t updated this place in forty years, she thinks it’s fine how it is. Don’t take it too personal, I was here working on her furnace when a guest asked why the pool wasn’t filled—she about pulled her shotgun out on the poor guy shouting the pool area is fine as is.”

  Jo closed her eyes, taking several cleansing breaths. This place was a twisty, humid, Twilight Zone. “I was told there would be laundry.” She signaled toward her suitcase. “I didn’t pack for four weeks.”

  Zac sighed. “Like Maggie said, there’s a laundromat in town.”

  “Oh, and I suppose I’m supposed to walk with all my clothes the ten miles it is into town? I wasn’t given a car, if you remember. Do they really think I’m a flight risk?”

  Jo was embarrassed by the crack in her voice. She crossed her arms when they stopped at the old room. Zac paused—no curt remark—as he opened the door. It was a small relief that the room was clean. It smelled nice, like fresh flowers. This was to be her home for the next four weeks, and the idea of it left a swollen knot in her throat.

  Zac blew out a long breath when she stalked past him and plopped onto the queen-sized bed. She ignored the way he raked his hand through his thick hair, because it revealed too much of his arm, and his biceps were too defined for her sensibilities at the moment.

  “Listen,” Zac rumbled. “Don’t throw a hissy fit, and just forget the laundry. I live right next door to the shop. You’re…welcome to use my washer and dryer any time, alright?”

  Her initial reaction was to say something snarky about the state of his washer and dryer in his no doubt, run-down, bachelor pad—but his voice was sincere. Taking a deep breath, she convinced herself to stop taking her frustrations out on others and nodded. “Thank you.” Her response was cold, but it was the best she could muster in the moment.

  “No problem,” he said, a glimmer of a grin breaking across his lips. “Crisis averted. Alright, here’s the room key. We work one Saturday a month, and tomorrow is the lucky day. It’s not far up the road, hardly a walk.”

  Jo nodded, fearing her voice would break again so she kept her words at a whisper while avoiding his gaze. “What time do you start work?”

  “Eight on weekdays, nine on Saturdays.” Jo wrung her hands in her lap as Zac backed out of the room. He cleared his throat, and tapped the doorframe a few times. “Josephine, we aren’t so bad here. I know you’re angry at me, but I…I’m not planning on making you miserable while you’re here. Okay?”

  Her teeth clamped tight; Jo winced when the tip of her tongue got caught. Perhaps she was tired from the flight, but she was finding it more difficult to keep the overwhelming despondency from bleeding out in the form of humiliating tears. The was no way on this green earth she was crying in front of Zac Dawson. “Okay,” she managed to croak.

  Zac held his position for a moment, and it seemed he was considering saying something more, but after a few tense moments and silent prayers he would leave so she could crumble, Zac closed the door. Jo darted across the small room, and bolted the door before sliding down the plywood and curling her knees against her chest. She’d learned long ago to cry silently, and for the next hour that was exactly what she did.

  ***

  Zac didn’t release his breath until he was safely back in the truck pulling out of the motel parking lot. All day he’d played exactly how the pick-up would go. She’d be snarky, like she’d been the night she crushed the pump. She’d call him a hick, or an idiot a few times. He’d dump her at Maggie’s place, and make sure she was uncomfortable every day she was at the shop. Uncomfortable by blasting the music too loud, making sure the guys didn’t wash up as often as they normally did, or chewed with their mouths open so food spilled out—things like that.

  He hadn’t anticipated hearing a catch in her voice, or recognizing the crimson flush of emotion creep up her neck like a wildfire. He’d left her somber, and for the first time, Zac considered Josephine Graham might be afraid. Lou McKinnon had filled Zac in that Miss Graham had no criminal history—not even a speeding ticket. As Zac sped the two miles toward his date for the night, he allowed himself to consider perhaps this entire ordeal was overwhelming and disruptive in her life. And it was partly his fault—he was man enough to admit he’d called the police to stick it to the haughty princess attitude that night.

  Pulling up the drive, he honked and waved, startling his mother as she carried groceries into the single-level, white siding, house.

  “Boy, you know better than to sneak up on me,” she teased, handing over one of the paper bags for Zac to take. Agatha Dawson didn’t look old enough to have a son about to turn twenty-four. She had shoulder length blonde hair and long lashes that curled naturally and made it seem like her eyes were always bright and attentive. She was tall too, only about three inches shorter than Zac, and he was an average six footer. Zac took his job as man of the house seriously as a kid, and it allowed him and his mom to have a tight connection.

  “Mama, it’s not like my truck is quiet.”

  She smiled in the coy way Zac was used to seeing since he was a kid. “Come on in, Kent’s been waiting. Nice of you to come over, honey.”

  Zac chuckled. “What guy doesn’t want to spend Friday night with his mother?”

  She shoved his shoulder once he’d placed the grocery bag on the dark countertop. The house was small, but they hadn’t needed a lot of room, especially after his dad had died. If his mom ever sold the place, Zac would probably buy it and keep it because it was the place he had
the most memories of his dad. The one thing he was sentimental over.

  Zac nodded a greeting when his uncle stalked down the hall. Uncle Kent was his daddy’s brother. He’d never married or had kids of his own, but after the accident Kent had stepped right in to see to it Zac and his mom never went without. The man had taught Zac how to drive a clutch, he’d taught him to change a tire, and throw a ball. He’d even sat him down after catching his run to second base with Mallory Stock in the eighth grade and talked all about things Zac didn’t want to know as a thirteen-year-old. Zac owed the man his livelihood after his uncle retired and left the shop for him to buy.

  Kent grinned and clapped Zac on the shoulder at the same time he plucked a grape off the vine.

  “Kent, I haven’t even washed ‘em,” Agatha scolded through a grin.

  “Aggie, I’ve been eating grapes unwashed for fifty-one years. If something was going to happen, it would have happened by now.” Kent faced Zac and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Toilet’s ready for you. I’m learning real quick I can’t lift as well as I used to. I’m feeling my age.”

  Zac shook his head. “You can still jack a car faster than me—so there’s that bit of hope to hold onto.”

  “Oh, honey,” his mother gasped, halfway in the fridge with a rotisserie chicken in hand. “How did the pick-up go? I nearly forgot.”

  “That’s right,” Kent sneered. “I wasn’t sure we’d see you alive, boy.”

  Zac shrugged, popping a few grapes into his mouth, and avoiding his mama’s smack. “Fine, I guess. I don’t expect we’ll be best friends anytime soon.”

  “Is she gonna do the work?” Kent grumbled.

  Zac swallowed the guilt building in his throat again when he considered her meek voice earlier. “I think so.”

  “You behaved?” Agatha questioned.

  “That depends on what you consider good behavior, mama,” Zac taunted.

  She narrowed her eyes, and put her hands on her curvy hips. “Zachariah, I don’t care if this woman tore down the entire shop, I expect my son to be respectful.”

  He sighed, and rubbed his chin. “We might have had a few sharp words, but I was respectful, I promise. I even offered my washer and dryer because Maggie nearly ripped out her heart when Jo asked about a laundry room at the motel.”

  That garnered a few laughs. Kent nodded. “Sounds like Maggie.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll bring her something to eat—I imagine she’s feeling a little out of her element all the way from Boston and all.”

  Zac didn’t like the idea of his mother meeting Jo, more for his mom’s sake. If Jo was as snippy with Agatha Dawson as she was with Zac, he might end up losing his temper and that wouldn’t do anyone any good.

  “I think she’s keen to be alone, mama,” Zac said, drifting toward the hallway where a broken toilet was waiting for repair.

  “Now, you know how I feel about people wanting to wallow alone—even those who don’t like others too much need to eat. I’ll give it some thought, and send you with something sweet for the girl. Heaven knows she’ll need sweetness being around all you dirty men all day.”

  Zac chuckled, but didn’t argue. It seemed Jo was going to get Agatha’s friendship whether she wanted it or not.

  For the next three hours, Zac and his uncle worked on the plumbing. Kent might have owned the repair shop, but he was a Jack of all trades, and in turn Zac had become quite the handyman through the years. By the time the toilet was a glistening porcelain throne again, his mother had made three batches of molasses cookies for them to eat that night, but also for Zac to take to Miss Josephine Graham the next morning. That wasn’t going to be awkward or anything.

  Zac yawned and scrubbed his face as he drove back home later that night. The morning was coming quick, and as he locked the side door behind him, he had a sinking feeling that his auto shop was about to change. And he didn’t know if he liked the idea at all.

  Chapter 3

  Jo placed her cell phone on the small bathroom counter as she applied a few layers of mascara to her light lashes. She was a blonde, but her eyelashes and brows behaved more like she were a redhead.

  “It’s terrible, Emmitt,” she whined. “The motel is a dive, and the woman who owns it seems like she wants to kill me.”

  He chuckled over the speaker. “Sweetie, keep your head down and plow through. It’s not like anyone will be able to hold a decent conversation with you, Jo. You’re an intellectual.”

  Jo crinkled her nose, thinking of the mellow side of Zac Dawson as he’d left the day before. Jo played the southern hick card too much, and now Emmitt picked it up and ran with it faster than she even dared go. Emmitt usually ran with things though, if it involved distractions from Jo’s past.

  “I don’t know if anyone would want to have a conversation with me anyway. I think I’m the plague to these people,” she sighed. “I miss you, and I want to come home.”

  “Come on, Jo. I can’t go four weeks hearing how bad it is. It’s draining babe, and I need a clear head, you know that. Just try and find something good.”

  The center of her chest tightened like corded ropes. Emmitt was wonderful. Handsome, successful, driven. He loved her sweetly and encouraged Jo in her career. There was one thing Emmitt didn’t excel at in the boyfriend department—being the shoulder to cry on. Even during some of the darker moments at the beginning of their relationship, Jo noticed Emmitt didn’t like to hear the dreary things of the day. Jo had learned to keep her struggles to herself, but she thought he’d appreciate knowing she missed him and wanted to be home, not with men like Zac Dawson.

  “You’re right,” she muttered.

  “You’ve got this, babe,” he said, though the words seemed shallow in the moment. “I’ve got to go, okay?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Go save the world.”

  “You know it. Call me tonight.”

  “How about you call me when you get off.”

  Emmitt paused. “Well, I don’t know when you get off your little secretary shift. What’s the big deal? Just call me Jo, and if I don’t answer you know I’m at the clinic.”

  “I’ll wait for your call, babe,” she crooned, though she could safely assume Emmitt probably wouldn’t call on principle of him asking her to call first. Emmitt didn’t appreciate the snappy comments, but there were moments when Jo let the fire inside out to play. “Love you, bye.”

  “You too,” he muttered. “Bye.”

  Jo straightened the tight T-shirt over the waist of her jeans. She didn’t know what to expect as a dress code for an auto repair shop, so skinny jeans and wedge sandals with her tee would have to do. Tossing her thick braid over her shoulder, Jo drew in a shuddering breath, inspecting her reflection once more before setting out into the muggy morning. Boston could get humid, but Honeyville was a different story. Although, as she walked along the road, familiarizing herself with the landscape, Jo admitted the morning air was refreshing, and carried the sweet aroma of distant shores and flowering trees.

  Jo kicked at the gravel along the parking lot when she returned to the scene of the crime. Her throat clenched as she studied the building in the morning light. The antique pumps had a fresh layer of paint and the metal pole dividing the vintage gas pumps was sturdy and upright. If she hadn’t been the culprit, Jo would never know the damage had been done in the first place.

  One sedan, a motorcycle, and a pickup truck filled the lot. Next door she saw the small house with Zac’s pickup tucked in the driveway. Jo glanced at her cell phone—she was five minutes early, but the three garage doors were opened wide and heavy guitar and bass blared from the inside. Swallowing her nerves, she stomped toward the open area.

  Find something good.

  Okay—the air smelled nice and…well…to be continued.

  Jo peered around the side frame of one of the garages. She heard laughing over the sound of the radio. Two men were zipping up jumpsuits preparing to slide beneath a minivan missing two tires. Jo caught sigh
t of two legs tucked beneath an SUV, based on the length, those weren’t Zac’s.

  “Welcome to the shop.”

  Jo shrieked, clutching her chest when she wheeled around, and Zac Dawson stood right beside her. He flipped a ring of keys around his index finger, dressed in tattered jeans and a plain tee. Grunge wasn’t supposed to look appealing—yet, her default nemesis pulled it off. Jo tightened her hold on the messenger bag filled with a book on pediatric arrythmia, along with her ratty copy of her cardiac textbook and Gone with the Wind. She might complain about the south in modern day, but take her to the time of Rhett Butler anytime. Again, she didn’t know what to expect, so she prepared entertainment in case Mr. Dawson wanted her to sit on her hands and stare at nothing just to be vindictive.

  “I didn’t even hear you,” she mumbled, tucking her braid off her shoulder again.

  He seemed pleased with himself. His dark chocolate eyes took her in. Offering a firm nod, he motioned to the two men standing in the garage. “Rafe, August—this is Josephine,” Zac bellowed over the music.

  The taller of the two reached out his hand, his blue eyes almost like snow. “Rafe,” he muttered as Jo clasped his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  “And this is his brother, August,” Zac introduced when the second man, who had sandier hair than the dark head on his brother, shook her hand.

  “Older, better-in-every-way, brother,” August insisted.

  Jo dared crack a smile. “I’ll be sure to remember.”

  “That guy under there is Mouse,” Zac said, pointing to the two legs. “He won’t say much, don’t take it personal. He’s more the get in and get work done sort. There’s a part-time guy, Andy, he’ll come and go during the week. He’ll also try and ask you out in the most uncomfortable ways. The guy doesn’t mean any harm, he’s just awkward.”

  Rafe and August chuckled and nodded. “It’s true,” August said. “He hit on my wife when she was five months pregnant, and we still lived in Louisiana at the time. It was just a visit, that’s how quickly Andy moves.”