“Enough about my beauty,” Buttercup said. “Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I’ve got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.”

---

My heart lodged in my throat, obstructing my ability to breathe. Or think.

The sight of her was like being sucker-punched in the stomach, slapped across the face, and receiving a sexy stroke in the groin simultaneously. Too much to sort through.

“Holy shit.” Hank nudged my shoulder. “Who is that?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

She was wearing a black tank top with thin straps and no bra. Maybe it was ungentlemanly of me to notice, but I noticed. Holy shit, did I notice. I think even Reverend Seymour’s wife would have noticed.

The shirt was a little too short for her long torso, baring a sliver of toned midriff. Her hair was thick, messy, and long, cascading down her back, tumbling over her shoulders, looking like she’d just taken it out of a braid. Her blue jeans were tight and were tucked into worn, brown cowboy boots.

Shelly hovered by the entrance, her fingers haphazardly tucked in her jeans pockets while her cold glare surveyed the interior.

In the end, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t speak, because Duane answered Hank’s question. “That’s Shelly,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Holy shit,” Hank repeated, still sounding dazed and amazed. “You weren’t exaggerating. She’s beautiful.”

Yeah, she was beautiful. She was also smart, clever, a brilliant mechanic. And . . . complicated. And mean.

I shouldn’t forget mean. Super, super mean.

I tore my eyes away and worked on putting them back in my head.

“Holy shit is right,” Jess said unexpectedly, drawing our attention. She was twisted in the booth, leaning forward to see past Duane. “She looks like somebody, somebody famous. Who does she look like?”

“She should be famous, looking like that.” Hank was near drooling.

“No, I’m telling you. She looks like someone.” Jess’s gaze grew foggy and she was clearly trying to place Shelly, as though she’d seen her someplace before. “Anyway, that’s the most gorgeous lady I’ve ever seen.”

“Then you need to look in the mirror.” Duane scowled at Jess, pushing her hair off her shoulder.

She slid her wide eyes to my brother and gave him an incredulous look. “Honey, I know you’re hot for me, and I love that about you. But I’m not blind. That woman is—”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Duane placed his face in front of Jessica’s, stealing a quick kiss and earning him a smile.

“Where the hell did she come from?” Hank sat up straighter, leaning to one side, presumably to keep Shelly in his line of sight. “I mean, other than my fantasies.”

I scoffed, sliding my teeth to the side and finding my voice. “Then go talk to her.” I couldn’t help it, the words were bitter.

Duane squinted at me. Jess did as well.

But Hank couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Shelly. “I think I might.”

My brother reached forward, placing a staying hand on Hank’s wrist. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

Duane released Hank and looked to me for help. I shrugged, gritting my teeth, not sure if I wanted to laugh or yell. I couldn’t be bothered to do either, because my heart was racing for no reason.

“Beau.” Without tearing his stare from Shelly as she strolled to the bar, Hank tugged on my shirtsleeve. “Introduce me.”

Duane shook his head. “You’re making a mistake. Leave her alone.”

“Come on now.” Hank finally turned to my brother. “No woman comes into a bar looking like that and doesn’t want some male attention.”

“Or female attention,” Jess muttered, fiddling with her coaster.

Duane made a strangled sound and Jess grinned. “What? I’m just saying, I agree with Hank. You dress for the job you want. And she’s dressed like she wants to have a good time. If she wanted to be inconspicuous, she’d dress inconspicuously. Right?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t choose her body, did she? Or her hair, or eyes, or height, or face.” My comments drew all eyes to me. I wasn’t sure what my point was. “I don’t think it matters what she wears, she’s never going to be inconspicuous. Hell, she’d get hit on daily at the shop if Duane and I didn’t hide her from customers, and she just wears coveralls there.”

Jessica studied me, quickly glancing at Shelly and then back to the table, like she was a little embarrassed. “I guess those clothes do look comfortable.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach, predicated on the realization that I hardly knew the woman. But I’d been making assumptions about Shelly Sullivan for the last several weeks based on her appearance.

Suddenly, I was desperate for another beer. Cletus had been right all along. I needed to apologize to Shelly for how I’d treated her—how and what I’d assumed—when we’d first met, and everything that came after.

Taking a deep breath, I shoved at Hank’s shoulder. “I’ll introduce you.”

Jess squinted at me. “But you just said—”

“She’s here by herself, isn’t she?” My eyes moved to Duane as I continued. “She’s all alone in this town. We’re the only people she knows.”

A whisper of a smile tugged at Duane’s mouth and he nodded once. “I guess someone should look after her.”

“I guess so.” I agreed as Hank stood and I skootched to the end of the booth. “Can I get y’all anything to drink?”

“I’ll take a margarita.” Jess covered Duane’s hand with her own on the table. “You really are the nicest person, Beau.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumped, giving her a small smile and motioning for Hank to follow me. “Come on, dummy.”

“Right behind you.” The eagerness in my friend’s voice grated.

I kept my steps slow, instructing Hank as we walked. “Unless you want her to cut your balls off, don’t flirt. She hates it when people flirt.”

“No wonder she hates you.” Hank chuckled.

I gave him a flat look out of the corner of my eye, then turned my attention back to Shelly. She was already surrounded and I shook my head, feeling sorry for the poor bastards. But also feeling sorry for her. She couldn’t help what she looked like any more than I could, any more than anybody could. Here the world was piling their expectations on her. That must’ve been exhausting.

“Also,” I continued, “don’t try to touch her or shake her hand. She doesn’t shake hands.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.” Hank was quiet for a beat while he considered this information. “Good to know.”

The band on stage finished a song and the dancers on the floor clapped, hooted, and hollered their appreciation. We passed a few people we knew. Kimmy Jones asked me to dance, as did Natalie Mason and Kelly, Naomi Winters’s niece. I teased and made promises to circle back later, citing Duane’s impending departure and wanting to spend time with my brother as my reason to beg off.

By the time we made it to the bar, the band was off the stage for their break and recorded music was playing through the speakers. The noise level was greatly reduced, which meant we heard the tail end of Shelly’s interaction with Duke Boone, one of Billy’s subordinates at Payton Mills.

Duke looked upset, but it was obviously for effect, to elicit sympathy. “You despise me, don't you?” he said, clutching his chest dramatically.

“If I gave you any thought, I probably would,” she responded coldly and I heard Hank make a short sound of surprise.

I wasn’t surprised by her insult. Nor was I surprised when Duke’s affected expression grew confused, then annoyed. But when Duke’s eyes dropped to Shelly’s chest and lingered, the spark of antagonism at the base of my neck took me by surprise.

“Wow. And here I was just trying to be sociable, sweetheart,” Duke drawled, leaning closer to her.

I pushed through Shelly’s admirers—most of whom I recognized as reasonable fellas—and stepped up next to her at the bar. They seemed to give way easily, I suspected more interested in watching Duke crash and burn than ready to throw their own hat in the ring. She was facing forward, not looking at or noticing me, not looking at Duke.

“You are as bright as a black hole and twice as dense.” She said this under her breath, but I heard it. As did everybody else.

Duke stiffened, looking truly offended. “Hey. Don’t let my modesty fool you.”

“You have a lot to be modest about.”

Hank made a strangled laughing sound, as did a number of other folks, and that’s when Duke’s face flushed red with anger.

And that was my cue to diffuse the situation

“Hey Shelly.” I braced for her gaze, affixing a politely disinterested expression on my face, and I was glad I did.

Her eyes sliced to mine.

My stomach dropped.

My heart skipped two beats.

As though startled by my presence, Shelly blinked once.

She then turned completely toward me, giving Duke her back while she rested an elbow on the bar to her right. “Hi. How are you?”

If her words hadn’t surprised me, the way her gaze moved over my face would have. Almost like she was nervous. Like I made her nervous.

Maybe because she knows I’ve seen her scars.

“Uh, can’t complain.” I nodded good-naturedly, smiling, hoping to dispel some of her anxiety. Her attention dropped to my mouth and her eyes became hazy. Or hungry. Maybe both.

Her hungry look didn’t give me the earlier sucker punch, or the slap in the face. Just the sexy stroke to my groin.

Well . . . shit.

Unsure what to do with that development, I cleared my throat and indicated with my head toward Hank. “This is Hank.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Unsmiling, Hank inclined his head, his tone tight.

With visible reluctance, her gaze cut to his and narrowed infinitesimally. I got the sense she was waiting for him to do or say something.

When he didn’t, her expression relaxed and she looked to me; if I was reading her right she looked appreciative. “You prepared him?”

I lifted my shoulders, feeling proud of myself for some reason. “Maybe.”

The side of her mouth curved and I held my breath, wondering if she would actually smile.

But then Duke gripped her by the upper arm and tugged. “Hello? I’m not done talking to you.”

“Don’t touch me,” Shelly hissed, twisting out of his grip.

“I’ll do whatever the hell—”

I slipped around Shelly, careful not to touch her, and stepped between them. “Hey Duke. Nice weather we’re having.”

“Back off, Beau.” Duke glared at me, the muscle at his temple jumping.

“Don’t want to talk about the weather?” I grinned, adding, “Because my brother Billy loves talking about the weather.”

Like the other times I’d stepped between Shelly and a man with wounded pride, I felt her behind me. I thought I’d given her enough space, but I must’ve misjudged because she was directly behind me, her breath on my neck like the first time with Drill weeks ago. It sent shards of sensation racing over my skin. And when she inhaled, her chest pressed against my back.

I was aware of her, and the awareness was incredibly distracting.

Duke sobered at the mention of Billy, rocking backward on his heels. He seemed to be considering his options, and I understood that. When a man’s pride is all he has worth defending, it makes him reckless.

Finally, after a tense moment, he stepped back and grabbed his beer. “Fine. I was finished with her anyway.” His eyes flickered over my shoulder to Shelly.

I tensed, because if I was reading Duke right, then an insult was on the tip of his tongue, and not a clever one either. One of the obscene variety. And if he said it, then I was going to have to punch him.

What? Why? Why do you have to punch him?

Because.

Not a good reason.

You’d do it for anyone.

No. I’m not sure that is strictly true.

For Shelly.

You are out of your damn mind. She’s not yours, you’re not hers.

Maybe . . . she could be?

Again, out of your damn mind. Remember Cletus? YOUR BROTHER?

Thankfully, at the last minute he bit it back, smirking as he sauntered away.

I was rattled. And muddled. Not by Duke or the threat of violence, though I was rattled and muddled by my own instincts.

I covered my confusion by glaring at the crowd gathered, silently communicating that the show was over as I turned to face her. Folks dispersed, and Hank—currently behind Shelly—motioned to the bartender to place our order.

Moving to allow space between us, I lifted my eyes to hers. They looked less cold than was typical, glowing as they searched mine. But her entire body was rigid.

Fighting the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, I instead pulled it through my hair.

“We’re not at the shop,” she said with her trademark lack of emotion.

“So?”

“So . . .” She took a half step forward, invading my space. “Don’t do that.” Her tone was almost soft.

“Do what?”

“Warn guys off.”

I flinched, feeling my brows come together. “You liked how he was treating you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

She licked her lips, glancing at the bar, and then back to me. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“My what?”

“Girlfriend.” A crease formed between her eyebrows. “When we met, you said you were seeing someone.”

“Oh. No. That ended. Actually, it never really started.”

“Oh.” Either it was my imagination, or that news seemed to please her.

Probably your imagination.

“So—”

“Either way, I don’t need your help.” Her voice was still gentle. Well, gentle for Shelly Sullivan.

And I wasn’t sure what to do with her gentleness, or her words. I stared at her, trying to read her mind. Getting a read on this woman was the ultimate effort in futility. She was locked up tight, still looking at me from behind a sheet of ice.

Maybe not as hostile as before, but just as guarded.

“Fine.” I nodded once, trying not to be irritated.

She inspected my face. “Are you mad?”

“No,” I responded immediately. Her question surprised me; when had she ever cared if I was mad?

Hank came to stand next to us. “Here’s your beer, Beau. I’m going to take Duane and Jess’s drinks back to the table. Y’all coming?”

“In a minute.” I accepted the beer and indicated that he should go on without me.

Hank turned a tight smile to Shelly. She glared at him, one of her eyebrows lifting slightly higher than the other.

“Well, okay then,” he said, turned, and left.

As soon as Hank was out of earshot, Shelly grit her teeth, her gaze sliding away. “I’m not good with people.”

“No? I never would have guessed.” I endeavored to keep sarcasm out of my voice, tried for teasing.

I failed.

Her stare darted back to mine and sharpened in that way she had. “You’re being sarcastic.”

“What gave me away?” I covered my unease with a swallow of my beer. She was skewering me with her eyes, cutting me open.

“The tone of your voice,” she responded in a monotone. “And your words.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“Right.” She nodded, her eyes fell back to the bar top and I was relieved to be out of their snare. I wondered if I’d ever grow accustomed to the weight of her attention. The rubber band around my chest had returned in full force, so did the restlessness.

This woman agitated me like no one else. Talking to her was like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. I needed to leave.

Giving her a quick nod, I moved to depart. “Well, nice seeing you.”

“Wait.” Her hand reached out and gripped my forearm.

And then she froze, staring at her hand on me like she expected something to happen. For my part, I was also stunned. I didn’t move. I watched her. A weird mixture of fear and determination played over her face.

Shelly released a shaky breath, her grip loosening but not releasing me. “Can we talk?”

“You want to talk? To me?”

“Yes.” Her gaze lifted—more fear, more determination—and held. “Please.”

My eyes widened at that. This night was just full of surprises.

Nevertheless, I nodded, leaning against the bar. “Okay.”

Her fingers slid away in a way that felt reluctant, and she twisted the coaster next to her drink until its side was perfectly parallel with the edge of the bar, saying nothing.

So I waited. I waited for a good while. I caught Kimmy Jones staring daggers at the back of Shelly’s head, bending to whisper something to Kelly Gavin and making a sour face. That surprised me. Kimmy had always seemed like a nice person. As far as I knew, she’d never met Shelly.

Women are weird, and that’s a fact.

Just as I took a gulp of my beer, Shelly said, “I'd like to have sex with you.”

I choked.

Beer threatening to come out of my nose, I brought my hand to my mouth and coughed, staring at this woman and certain—very, very certain—I’d misheard her.

She watched me, expressionless. Except, even as my eyes blurred with the tears of a good coughing fit, I detected a shift in her, a sliver of vulnerability—uncertainty—as she stared at me.

I coughed so long and so hard, the bartender eventually brought me a glass of water. I drank it, staring at Shelly.

And when I set it down, I rasped, “Excuse me?”

“You are excused.”

“No, I wasn't—” I shook my head quickly and pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I'd like to have sex with you.”

I continued staring at her, letting my hand drop as I regarded this woman, the meaning of her words, and the lack of emotion with which she said them.

The words themselves weren’t unusual. I’d heard those words before—or something like them—from many, many women. Usually whispered in my ear while they pawed me in my car, or in a hidden corner of the community center on jam session night, or behind this very building.

But I’d never heard them like this, with the same passion one might use to suggest I try using fabric softener.

Shelly Sullivan dropped her gaze to the bar top.

“You’re joking,” I said and thought at the same time.

She shook her head.

I flinched because she wasn’t joking.

“You’re serious.” The words came out strangled.

Color stained her cheeks. Her eyes were averted but sober, and her generous lips were pressed into a determined line. “Yes.”

An involuntary sound escaped me as I gave the woman a once-over, again saying and thinking at the same time, “You're crazy.”

I winced as soon as the words were out. Immediately, I regretted them, wished them back, and cursed under my breath. I hadn’t meant to say it, because—clearly—she’d suffered at some point in her life.

She also flinched—just a little—like I'd poked a wound that still smarted.

It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but before I could she said, “Yes. That’s also true. But I'm taking medications, I think I'm less crazy now than before.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. She had me turned inside out and upside down, uncertain what to do or think or say.

Spinning the coaster on the bar top, she filled the silence. “My therapist suggested that I should ask you out. But what I really want is to have sex with you. So, that’s what I am asking for. But I’m not against dating.”

“Therapist?” I asked dumbly, trying to keep up. “You’re in therapy?”

The muscle at her jaw jumped and she nodded.

Glancing around the bar, half wondering if this was an elaborate prank, I searched my head for the right response to her request.

Uh, yeah.

Yes.

Hell. Yes.

How about right now?

Wait a minute . . . wrong head.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled. I exhaled. I opened my eyes and they caught on Duane across the room, and his often-repeated words floated through my mind, What would Darrell Winston do? Do the opposite.

And also, Cletus.

“I . . .” I started, my stomach dropping, eyes lingering on my brother for a moment longer, then moving to the woman in front of me. I didn’t prepare myself—I hadn’t been thinking—so her gaze hit me square in the chest. Two beats of my heart later, I finished my sentence. “I don’t think it would be appropriate, for us to . . . seeing as how I’m technically your boss.” And my brother Cletus thinks you two are suited.

Shelly was nodding before I’d finished my sentence, reaching into her back pocket and withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill.

“That makes sense.” She placed the bill on the bar. She turned. She left.

I stared at the spot she’d just vacated for less than a second, and then my feet were moving. I set my beer on the bar. I followed her through the crowd and out the door. She had long legs, and she was power-walking, so I had to jog to catch up. By the time I did, she was standing next to her brown 1971 Buick GSX and was fumbling with her keys.

“Wait a minute. Wait.” Unthinkingly, I caught her arm, sliding my hand down the length of it until she was facing me and I had her fingers wrapped in mine.

She shivered and lowered her gaze, but she didn’t move otherwise.

“Shelly.”

“Yes?”

For some reason, I was out of breath. “Are you . . .”

She gave me her eyes. “Yes?” The question was a whisper and it sounded hopeful.

Dammit.

Releasing her hand, I took a step back. “Are you working Monday?”

She stared at me. She nodded. I nodded too.

Then Shelly unlocked her car, slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away.