Texas Thunder (7 page)

The clock was ticking, after all.

She drew a deep breath, tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, and did what she always did when she was stressed to her limits and so dangerously close to breaking—she sucked it up and went to work.

*   *   *

Just keep driving.

That's what Brett Sawyer told himself when he turned the corner off Main Street and spotted the familiar blue pickup parked in front of the corner house. But then he saw Callie standing near the truck bed, struggling with a large box, and he couldn't help himself.

For better or worse, he hit the brakes and pulled into the driveway.

 

CHAPTER 7

Brett's headlights sliced through the dusky shadows of sunset as he pulled up behind Callie's truck and killed the engine. She turned and eyes as green as the lush pastureland behind his house caught his. Something twisted in his stomach.

That same something he'd felt back at the store when he'd run into her. And back in school when he'd slid into the desk across from hers every afternoon for tutoring. And when he'd glanced across the lunchroom to catch her looking at him.

Killing the engine, he slid out of the truck, his boots hitting the pavement with a loud
thunk.
With each step, his chest got a little tighter until he caught himself holding his breath as he reached her.

“What are you doing here?”

If only he knew. But he wasn't asking himself that question at the moment because he sure as hell didn't want to have to answer it. He smiled instead and motioned to the box. “You looked like you could use a hand.”

“I'm okay.” She reached for the box, but he was quicker. His hand brushed hers and a jolt of electricity shot up his arm, into his chest, and fire-balled straight to his groin.

Instant.

Powerful.

Predictable.

He'd had the same reaction to her way back when in the backseat of his pappy's Cadillac and it had scared the hell out of him because he'd never felt that way before. That itchy and tight and out of control.

Then.

He was a full-grown man now and while he still felt the attraction, he could handle it.

Nothing rattled Brett Sawyer. Not a thousand-pound bucking bull or a punch of lust. He just picked himself up, dusted himself off, and pasted on his easiest smile.

“I've got it.” He caught the box and lifted it easily. “Where do you want it?”

She frowned and looked as if she wanted to tell him a few choice destinations. The seconds ticked by, but then the expression eased. “Inside.” She grabbed another smaller box and started up the front walk. Punching in the key code on the combination lock hooked on the front knob, she opened the door and walked into the shadowy interior. A split-second later, she hit the light switch to the right and light flooded the entryway and illuminated the front porch.

“You can put it right here.” She set her own box on a small side table and motioned to the floor next to it.

He bent down and deposited the cardboard on the polished hardwood before turning to admire the front entryway. “What happened to the Bachmans?”

“They retired and moved. Haverty's got the listing.”

“So you're working for Les now?”

She shrugged. “It pays the bills.” She blew out a deep breath and her chest pushed against the tight confines of her black dress. The buttons strained to stay together and Brett found himself wishing they would just give up the fight.

He stiffened against the thought, determined to keep his mind on something other than getting her naked. “How come you're working tonight of all nights?”

She shrugged. “The world doesn't stop just because something bad happens. The clock keeps ticking and the bills keep piling up.”

“I know that feeling.”

“So I guess the rumors are true?” She arched an eyebrow at him as she pulled out a stack of fliers and set them on the small table.

“That depends on what the rumors are saying.”

“They're saying Bootleg Bayou is in financial trouble.”

He frowned. “Nothing I can't handle.” At least that's what Brett was desperately telling himself. But after twenty minutes spent convincing the feed store owner to extend his line of credit, he was starting to doubt himself. Things just kept growing and growing, getting heavier by the minute.

In more ways than one, Brett thought as his gaze caught on the shapely curve of Callie's ass beneath the clingy black material and he felt the tightening in his groin. She'd always been curvy, but a few pounds in all the right places made it even harder for him not to look.

Not to want.

“I'll grab the rest of the boxes,” he blurted, eager to get a grip before he did something he would truly regret—like push her up against the nearest wall, pop those buttons on her dress, and see if her nipples were still as pink as he remembered. As tasty. He wasn't here for that.

Sure thing, buddy.

The doubt dogged him as he headed back out to the truck. He spent the next five minutes hauling in the two boxes and doing his damnedest to ignore the blonde unpacking the carton of promotional water bottles nearby.

“What next?” he asked when he'd deposited the last of the cardboard onto the floor.

“You can open up that other box with the rest of the water bottles. We're going to stack some here”—she pointed to the table in the foyer—“and the rest are going in the kitchen.”

He pulled out his pocket knife, sliced through the packing tape, and opened up the container, grateful to have something to focus on other than the woman moving about in his peripheral vision.

Yep, she'd filled out in all the right places.

She had more curves and damned if her legs weren't longer than he remembered. He slid a glance to the side and caught a glimpse of one delicate ankle, a shapely calf. She wasn't wearing any stockings and the urge to lean over and run his fingertips along her smooth flesh punched him hard and fast in the chest.

He gripped one of the water bottles instead and focused all of his attention on stacking two dozen on the polished table, one after the other, at a record pace until the last one hit the wood and he turned to snatch up the box and head for the kitchen.

The sweet peachy vanilla scent followed him, teasing his nostrils and stirring a whisper of awareness that settled at the back of his neck before creeping down along his spine.

His ears tuned to the soft footsteps as she moved about the house, setting up fliers and distributing promotional products and he couldn't help but wonder which room she was in, and what all he could do to her in each specific spot.

He saw her draped across the sofa, her buttons popping and her lips parting as he leaned over her. Or bent over the staircase, his hands on her thighs as he pumped into her from behind. Or spread across a king-sized bed, her golden hair fanned out around her, her body so lush and open and—

Aw, hell.

He moved faster, emptying out the box and stacking the rest of the bottles. There. Done.

Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

He turned to see her standing in the doorway between the hallway and the kitchen. Her grass-green gaze collided with his for a second and she caught her bottom lip as if thinking of what to say next. Or fighting back what she really wanted to say.

It was a sight that sucked him back in time to all those afternoons spent in the calculus lab, where she'd done her best to keep things strictly business while he'd flirted and talked and done his damnedest to get past the wall she'd built up around herself.

The challenge. That's what he'd told himself. She was a Tucker. The forbidden fruit. And Brett had been more than eager to take a great big bite. She'd turned him down that first time he'd asked her out, but he'd been persistent. He'd asked again. And again. And eventually she'd said yes.

Despite her parents' objection and the fit her granddaddy had thrown on the front porch when Brett had arrived to pick her up.

Hell, he'd nearly gotten his ass shot off with a sawed-off bootleg special, but Callie had faced James Harlin with a stern look that said she knew what she was doing, and she was doing it whether he liked it or not.

Brett had felt something he'd never felt for any girl at that particular moment—admiration. The feeling had chipped away at his smooth Southern charm and turned him into an awkward, overly excited ball of testosterone. He'd wanted her so bad.

He still did.

The notion struck and he shoved it to the furthest part of his mind. Maybe so, but he wasn't acting on it. That was the difference between the boy he'd been and the man he was now—he wasn't a slave to his basic impulses.

Control. That's what it was all about and he had it in spades.

But back then … He'd been desperate that night. Awkward. Overly excited. And so he'd pushed her out of his car and sped away. That first date had turned into their last and he hadn't talked to her since.

He'd meant to. But she'd been too torn up over her parents and he'd been at a loss as to what to say. Hell, he hadn't trusted himself to say anything to her after spouting off like Old Faithful before he'd even gotten his pants off. He'd been embarrassed. Scared. Stupid.

A kid,
he reminded himself.

But he was a full-grown man now, and he wasn't losing his head where she was concerned. No ripping off her clothes and burying his face in her breasts. No plundering her mouth with his.

Not ever again.

But there was nothing wrong with being nice. Friendly. He owed her that much. That's why he'd stopped in the first place. To be cordial. Decent.

Drawing a deep breath, he met her steady gaze. “What else can I do for you?”

 

CHAPTER 8

Take a flying leap.

That's what Callie wanted to say. What she'd been waiting ten years to tell him.

Sure it wasn't the ideal scenario. No killer job or killer heels, but she wasn't going to get caught up in the details. It wasn't as if Brett Sawyer waltzed back into her life every other day. This might be her only chance to blast him and tell him what she really thought of him.

That he was a no-good, unreliable lowlife who'd ruined everything. He'd dumped her and taken the most important thing from her—her parents.

But the truth was, she didn't really want to blast him anymore. And not because she was too tired or because she didn't look her best or because she was coming off one of the worst days of her life. But because, in all honesty, he just didn't deserve it.

Yes, he was no-good and unreliable and a lowlife. And he'd most definitely ruined a lot of things—namely her self-esteem. At least back then. But he hadn't taken her parents from her.

Ten years had taught her that sometimes bad things just happened. To some more than others.

She'd blamed him at first because he'd been an easy target. She'd been mad and hurt and he'd been such a jerk that night. He'd been the reason she'd had to call her parents in the first place.

Still, he hadn't been the one who'd crashed into them.

He stared at her expectantly. “Are there more boxes?”

“No, I just…” Her voice faded and she caught her lip, trying to say something—anything—so she didn't appear a total idiot. His gaze dropped and she could practically feel it slide over the fullness of her bottom lip. “That is, I thought you might want to take a tour of the house.”

His mouth crooked at the corner and she saw a hint of the teasing grin that she remembered so well. “You trying to sell me some real estate?”

“Hardly.” She had the sudden image of that grin up close and personal a split-second before his mouth pressed against hers and her stomach hollowed out. “I'm not even a licensed Realtor.”

Yet.

She steeled herself against the thought, one which had nagged her for the past few years, since the moment Les had urged her to get her Realtor's license. “I'm an office assistant. For now.” She wasn't sure why she kept going except that she needed to do something with her mouth that didn't involve kissing him, and rambling seemed like the only thing she could come up with. “As soon as I settle everything with my grandfather's estate, I'm out of here. I've got a stack of resumes ready to send out to the
Dallas Herald,
the
Houston Chronicle,
and a dozen other publications. Everything from a few Texas travel magazines to a local Hill Country tabloid.”

“So you still want to be a journalist?”

“An investigative reporter.” She shrugged. “At least that's what I'm hoping for eventually. Right now, I'll settle for compiling traffic reports or doing human interest—anything to get my foot in the door. I'm doing a few stories here and there for the
Rebel Yell,
but nothing big. Just enough to keep my feet wet for now.”

“I figured you would have taken off after that dream a long time ago.”

She remembered how excited she'd been those months leading up to graduation. How hopeful because she'd gotten into one of the best journalism schools in the country. Her hope had died that night as she'd stood in the ER, listening to the doctor deliver the bad news that both her parents had passed away shortly after arriving at the trauma unit. She blinked against the sudden burning behind her eyes and shrugged. “Life doesn't always work out the way we want.”

“Tell me about it,” he murmured and she noted the weariness around his own eyes.

Something twisted in her chest. “I heard about your grandfather. How's he doing?”

“He's hanging in there.” He stiffened, as if fighting some internal battle. “I'm sure he'll be back on his feet in no time.”

“But I thought he had Alzheimer's?”

“He does, but he still has good days left. A lot of them.” His gaze locked with hers and she saw the glimmer of desperate hope, as if he was still holding on to the idea that everything could be okay. That it
would
be okay.