“What I meant was,” I waited for her to meet my eyes again before continuing, “I trust you. I have faith in you that no matter where you go or what you’re doing, in the end you’ll always come back to me.”
I left Sienna’s trailer wearing yesterday’s clothes and a big smile. Who knew tight quarters could be so much fun? We couldn’t get far enough away from each other to allow any measure of space. So of course accidental touching became on-purpose touching. I blamed my size and hers.
In other words, we were perfect for each other.
“It’s the lumbersexual.”
I looked up, finding Mr. Low strolling toward me, an unpleasant expression on his face. Now here was a guy who was an asshole. I hated these guys because they reminded me of who I used to be.
I nodded my head once in greeting but had no intent to actually stop and converse. Unfortunately, his plans didn’t align with mine.
Blocking the path so I’d have to stop or walk into him, he held his hands up between us and said, “Aren’t you going to say hello? Or is that business about southern manners an exaggeration?”
I stepped back, thinking it would be a bad idea for him to be within easy punching distance, and shoved my hands in my pockets. “Morning, Mr. Low.”
“You can call me Tom. After all,” he shrugged, “we’ve both fucked the same woman.”
Yep. Good. Thing. He. Wasn’t. Within. Punching. Distance.
Good decision.
I blinked at him once then turned on my heel and walked away. I would take the long way around to my truck. No biggie.
He jogged after me.
“Hey. Where are you going? Busy planting trees or whatever you Boy Scouts do?”
I made a list of what needed to be picked up from the grocery store for dinner. Making lists helped. Cletus had taught me to do that. Not many people knew, but Cletus had a terrible temper. As a kid his tantrums were legendary, and as a teenager his rage made him blind.
He kept it all locked up now by making mental lists whenever he felt the urge to pummel someone.
Of course, he also hatched maniacal plans of revenge against anyone who crossed him. Beau and I often considered giving Cletus a hairless cat as a present, so his James Bond supervillain image would be complete.
But then Tom pushed my back, making me stumble forward a few steps.
I didn’t like to be pushed.
Righting myself, I turned slowly. Mr. Low was obviously after a confrontation.
“What do you want?” My voice was gruff, but that’s to be expected. I kept my hands in my pockets, another trick I’d learned from Cletus.
“Man,” he shook his head, sneering, “she did a number on you. You actually think you’re special, don’t you? People are laughing at you.”
I stared at him, giving him nothing. Running late for work wasn’t a worry. I figured he’d wear himself out eventually.
“I know you’re a simple people, but do you honestly think Sienna Diaz is interested? In you? Her sister would never allow it. You have heard of Marta, haven’t you? Sienna listens to her sister about everything. See, Marta and I are good friends, and I know she hates the idea of you. You’re already as good as gone.” He chuckled, and it was forced.
I tried to ignore his words, but some of them hit a target. Just as we hadn’t told my family, we hadn’t told Sienna’s. We knew Marta was definitely not Team Jethro. Yet.
And yet, Mr. Low wanted me to doubt. He wanted chaos. I refused to give it to him.
So, I needed kale from the store, and tomatoes, and feta. We already had garlic and onions.
“You’re nothing,” he spat. “When filming wraps, you’re gone. And then she’s off to her next fuckbuddy.”
Man, I really wanted to shut his mouth. Breaking his jaw would do the trick. Instead I started making a new list of how many ways I could wreck his pretty face.
“Hey!” He stepped directly in front of me and snapped his fingers in front of my eyes. “Can you hear me, hillbilly? Or are you too stupid—?”
On instinct, I grabbed his wrist and wrenched it behind his back, shoving him away. He stumbled then fell to one knee.
“You’re drunk, old-timer. Go home.” I readied myself for a right hook, because how he was crouched lent itself well to a surprise punch in the face. That was assuming Mr. Low even knew how to fight.
Mr. Low straightened and turned, rage in his eyes. I guess he didn’t like being called “old-timer.” Honestly, I suspected as much. That’s why I’d said it.
“Fuck you.” He seethed. “I’m not old.”
I shrugged, unable to contain my smirk. That was childish. Shame on me.
“Are you finished?” I asked, pulling my phone from my pocket and glancing at the screen. I still had time, but that didn’t mean I wanted to spend any more of it in Mr. Low’s company.