"You have the shop number. I'll let the guys know you'll be in touch. I know this is an entirely foreign concept to you, but this, Tate, is what good-bye sounds like."
Before I can open my mouth and demand her silence so I can say everything I need to say, the call is disconnected and the dial tone is echoing back in my ringing ear.
I pocket my phone and try to ease some of the tension out of my shoulders, replaying the phone call in my mind, hearing her voice, and feeling my body start to come alive for the first time in a long damn while from that alone. I'd stopped believing that I would ever see her again, let alone hear her voice, but now that I have, my body is humming with the reminder of what that husky sound can do to it.
- -
Back then, when I left her for good, I knew I was doing the right thing. It was something I had begrudgingly accepted as each lonely year passed that I longed for her. I would never have gone back, leaving her free to be lost to me forever when another man realized how perfect she is too. Hell, for all I know, that man's already in her life. That was the one update I refused to let my friend Mark, who still lives back in Pine Oak, fill me in on. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.
It took me a while to accept that possibility when I gave in and left her. There were so many days that I wanted to fight the resistance keeping me back and give up everything for her--but it would have been selfish of me to do so knowing it would affect so many others. So I did the only thing I could: I learned to accept the life I was living. I have some good friends in Alpharetta, the town just outside of Atlanta where I live. The position I have in the labor and delivery department at Northside Hospital in Atlanta is challenging and rewarding, just what I always wanted. I date casually, the type of women like the one waiting inside for me to return--even if what I share with Ella isn't special, it's practical. Functional. Satisfying, more or less. Bottom line, I don't do relationships. I feed my body's needs when the loneliness threatens to become too overwhelming, and that's it.
From the outside looking in, I have everything the younger me thought I wanted at this point in my life. I've become the man my parents pushed me to be--a doctor in a top-of-the-line hospital, far away from the private small-town practice I always pictured myself owning. I'm every bit the rich and successful man I appear to be. I could buy the damn world if I felt like I wanted to take it for a spin.
A dry laugh escapes me as I study my reflection in the window. I embody completely the "starch" Quinn and I used to poke fun of. The high-society image that my parents pressed upon me since my boyhood has taken over, when all I ever wanted was nothing more than to pull on some old jeans and get my hands dirty. I've become everything I always resented in my parents growing up, and I might as well be a world away from the only place--and person--that ever made me feel at home.
I wonder how I ever let it get this fucking far. I reckon I was denying my mind a trip down this path for so long, I didn't even realize how bad things had become. Only difference this time is that I don't have anything standing in my way. My mind is focused on all the things I can fight for now that the worst thing that could happen is rejection. All that's left here in Georgia is a few loose ends to tidy up before I pack up the last eight-plus years and head back to Texas. Like my job.
And Ella.
My eyes roll involuntarily as I think of the situation with Ella and how out of control it's gotten. We aren't even dating. Hell, we were never dating. It was purely two busy people blowing off steam. Two doctors who used each other's bodies instead of going home alone. She said she didn't want anything more and I said I would never want anything more. She caught me each time when I had been letting that lingering loneliness choke me and it worked.
Until it didn't.
Even if I wasn't going back to Pine Oak--finally--this conversation would be happening. I probably would have put it off a few weeks, but once I knew I was going back to Texas an overwhelming sense of urgency hit. The reason I never wanted a relationship since I settled in Georgia was because if I couldn't have it with the one woman I wanted, I didn't want it with anyone, and now that woman is finally on the horizon, waiting for me to return--even if she doesn't know it yet. So I tried to end things with Ella--and then I tried again, and again. The woman just won't take no for an answer. She asked me to dinner tonight, and I begrudgingly agreed on the condition that we at last both come to the same page on our relationship, and where it would finish. Right here, right now, tonight.
But so far, there's been a whole lot of talking on my part and a hell of a lot of eye-fucking on Ella's part.
That's going to end. Now.
With a clear mind and a new fuel of determination rushing through my body, I head back into the restaurant.
"Sorry about that," I tell Ella when I reach our table, picking my napkin off the seat before settling back into the chair across from her, placing it back in my lap. "You ordered wine?" I ask, looking at the two full glasses on the table and the bottle with the expensive French label chilling in a bucket to my right.
"I figured we could relax a little. It's been a long week." She reaches across the table, her small hand about to close around one of mine, but I pull back before she can get purchase.
"I'm on call, Ella," I mumble, pushing the glass closest to me away and picking up my water.
She shrugs, pulling her arm back and winking before taking a delicate sip of her own wine. "Well, you'll have to cut me off after two, Tatum. Anything more than that and I won't be any good for you tonight."
"Stop, Ella. You know damn well I didn't come out tonight as some sort of prelude to fuckin'. I'm only here for another month before my resignation is effective, but even without me movin' back to Texas, whatever you think is goin' on here isn't. We've talked about this."
Something flashes in her eyes, but it's gone a moment later. Her perfect mask falls back in place. "Oh, Tatum, I understand. Goodness, your accent sure does come back when you're heated. Anyway, I had hoped dinner might lead to a little good-bye fun, but you're right, I'm sorry. You can't blame a girl for trying though, Tatum. I mean, look at you."
I feel one of my brows arch at her continued attempts at flirting, but I ignore it in the hope that she will take a hint. "I'd prefer the remainder of my time here to pass without any more weirdness between us. I'm not goin' to deal with you playin' the role of a jealous girlfriend when you know damn well the time we spent together don't equal a relationship, especially when I made it clear I don't do commitment. We're colleagues and that's all."
She clears her throat. "Of course. I'm sorry. I thought it was just fun and games."
The waiter steps up to the table and sets our plates down and I wave him off with a smile and a nod before addressing Ella again. "Let's finish up our meal and I'll take you home. I appreciate your understandin', Ella, and I apologize if I did something to make you believe this was somethin' it isn't."
She picks up her fork, digging into her salad with a smile. "Nonsense. Let's put it behind us. Water under the bridge and all that. Tell me about this place you're moving to." She holds my gaze as she chews, and I relax now that she clearly understands the line I've drawn in the sand and seems willing to abide by it.
I cut my steak, take a bite, and savor the perfectly cooked meat before telling her all about Pine Oak, not even attempting to hide the excitement in my voice. Ella smiles and nods in all the right places, engaging in the conversation with rapt interest.
In another life--one in which I never knew Quinn Davis existed--Ella is probably the type of woman I would have ended up with. The daughter of two very affluent parents, southern and genteel, beautiful and always perfectly put together no matter where she's going, and intellectually smart and driven.
The perfect woman for a lot of men.
But not for this man.
I live in a world where Quinn Davis very much exists, erasing any possibility of any other perfect woman existing for me, ever.
My perfect woman is the daughter of a ba
stard, beautiful, an unpredictable sexy mess no matter where she ends up, and so brilliant and driven that she could race her jacked-up truck in laps around the Ella Fosters of the world.
I'll grovel until my knees have no skin left on them. If I get back and find another man in my place, I'll fight for her regardless. If she forgot how to love me, I'll remind her. Whatever it takes.
No more regrets.
I give Ella a platonic smile over my water glass and signal the waiter for the check. It's time to end this farce I'm stuck living and take back my life--and the woman who has always held my goddamn heart.
4
QUINN
"Love Can Go to Hell" by Brandy Clark
- -
Stupid. Clink.
Infuriating. Whack.
Good-for-nothing. Ping.
"You keep beating the shit out of that undercarriage and there ain't gonna be shit we can do to put that old beast back together again," Barrett, one of my lead mechanics, jokes gruffly.
"Yeah, well I don't even want to put this old beast back together again anyhow," I snap, pulling myself out from under the truck and standing, stretching out my aching back muscles. I throw my wrench over to the toolbox I had wheeled closer to the side of the truck I was working on, having dragged it over from the other bay in my private section of Davis Auto Works.
"Oh, QD, what did this neglected beauty ever do to you?" Barrett's shoulders shake, a deep rumble of hilarity vibrating from his chest.
Ignoring him, I narrow my eyes and watch him walk around the old Ford, analyzing it with a critical eye.
"What's the problem, QD? I've never seen you this fired up."
I roll my shoulders and measure my words carefully. Barrett doesn't need me to give him a handful of girl problems. He's got enough of that at home with his middle-school-age daughters.
"Just got a lot on my mind, Ret. I knew this project was coming, but I figured I had some time before I had to deal with it. Last thing I expected was the damn thing showin' up a few days after I got wind about it." Indeed, only several days after I hung up on Tate and wished him good-bye, his paw's damn truck landed in my bay, courtesy of Tank and Ret. Trying to separate the personal from the professional clearly wasn't working for me whatsoever.
"This old man Ford's truck?"
Forgetting my annoyance, I gape at him in shock. "Do you know any other F1's in or around Pine Oak that look like this, Ret? Jesus Jones, everyone and their uncle's brother has been itching to get their hands on this beast for years, but Fisher never wanted anyone to touch it."
"Fisher Ford was always a cranky old geezer," he grumbles. "Knew it was his, just got sick of watchin' you throw your sass around all day. Whatever's got your panties all twisted up, figure it out and stop bringin' down team morale."
"Team morale? Janet making you listen to those self-help tapes again?" I laugh.
"That woman's gonna drive me insane, God love her."
"I'm thinkin', Ret, you might already be there." I duck when he tosses a dirty shop rag at my head, laughing again when he starts pouting.
"You keepin' the old flathead in there?"
I shake my head, walking over to look at the old F1's original engine. "The outside of this beast needs love--lots of love--and Fisher might have tried keepin' this baby rollin', but I reckon time got away from him. It's comin' out. I'm pullin' the 329 flathead V-8 outta Bertha instead."
Barrett grunts, the noise a mix of shock and agreement, I'm sure. "Hear what you're sayin', QD, but be a damn shame to see you pull out something you've been workin' your tail off to restore for a solid year now."
"Yeah, well." I sigh, already fed up with the day and mad that it's not even noon yet. "Owner's paying top dollar to fix this up and he said money is no limit, right?"
Barrett nods.
"Well, that's good, because I just so happen to know that the owner of Bertha is askin' well over market value."
Barrett's eyes widen and his big beer belly shakes with hilarity. "Whatever Fisher Ford's grandson did to you must have been terrible."
"What makes you think he did anything to me?" I hedge.
"No woman I know lets that little piece of the devil that lives inside of her out for any other reason, darlin'. You've got it written all over your pretty little face. Just tell me, what did he do to deserve your wrath?"
I roll my eyes. "I swear, you gossip more than Marybeth Perkins after bingo night. You're the one that told him we could start on it right away when I know I told you I wasn't startin' this shit until I was good and ready, so maybe I should be takin' this out on you? You want to continue this blabbermouth session or you wanna help me pull this heap of shit out?"
Barrett's eyes ping from me to the old flathead engine, back and forth, a few times before he gives me a nod. I wait, knowing he's about to open his big mouth again. Two minutes later, he puts his tools down and turns to me, but I just lift my greasy hand and snap out a loud and emphatic no.
We work.
- -
Six long-as-hell hours later, Davis Auto Works is locked up tight and I'm in my baby headed to the ranch. Well, one of my babies. I'm a truck snob, it's true, but I can't seem to part with any of the beauties I bring back to life long after they've been abandoned. My old shrink used to tell me that I was trying to make up for my own issues with abandonment by hunting out these forgotten gems, latching onto them, and pouring all of my love and care into them. I left her practice when she hinted that maybe my "unhealthy" hobbies were doing me more harm than good.
I don't deny I have issues, but I would be hard-pressed to find a single soul in the whole big-ass world who doesn't. I've come a long damn way in working past those dang issues, too; then all it takes is one gusty blast from the past to kick up dust as a harsh reminder that you can polish the past until the wood shines, but the grime always settles back in.
The gates to the Davis ranch hit my vision at the same time a deep rush of air escapes my lips, the discontent I feel echoing around the silent cab. I see Clay's truck parked in his normal spot and pull Harriett, my 1969 Chevrolet C10, in next to his brand-new, offensively shiny, Chevy Silverado . . . that he won't let me touch.
"Didn't expect you home this early," Clay rumbles from his perch on one of the porch's old rocking chairs.
"Cramps," I mumble, shutting Harriett's door just a little harder than normal and reminding myself not to stomp as I turn to climb up the porch steps.
"Just because you think I get grossed out by all things menstrual, sugar, I'm not lettin' this drag on anymore. You had 'cramps' two weeks ago when I was doin' payroll at D.A.W. and I might have a dick between my legs, not knowin' much about that shit, but I'm pretty sure they don't last this long."
"You want to compare cycles?" I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Don't start that man-period shit, Quinny. Come tell me what's got you runnin' around like you've got a burr stuck in your ass. You've been avoidin' me."
I don't move. My spine straightens and I lock my knees, defiance written all over my face.
Clay narrows his gaze. "Didn't work when you were seven and wanted a cookie, damn sure ain't gonna work when you're twenty-seven and want to act like a sulkin' brat. I know you ain't talkin' to Leigh, because I asked. She said you've been actin' fine around her. I know you don't want to talk to Maverick because you're still worried he's gonna disappear again if he feels any kind of discord here, which sugar, that's some shit. You know he's settin' down roots God himself couldn't rip up. You got me, babe, and last I checked, I wasn't the worst option."
I deflate instantly, something Clay picks up on, because he drops the legs he had resting on the porch rail, his boots slapping against the wood with a loud bang that makes me jump. He stands to his full height and erases the distance between us, towering over me as always, wrapping me in his comforting arms.
He's been my hero since I was a baby. He stepped up when it became clear the Davis siblings could only count on each other and made su
re I was protected, loved, and sheltered. In many ways, he's more of a father to me than my own ever was, and even if I had tried to build that gap with our late father before his death, this special connection would only ever be with Clay.
"I'm a mess, Clay," I whisper softly against his flannel shirt. His arms spasm around me, but he doesn't release his hold.
"Nah, you're not a mess, sugar, just a little dusty."
I smile into his shirt, breathe in the familiar scent of earth and leather, before stepping back to gesture to the row of rocking chairs. "Might as well get cozy for this."
Clay's eyes flicker, but other than that he doesn't give me a clue to what he's thinking.
"Remember Tate Montgomery? Fisher and Emilie Ford's grandson?" I ask after we both settle into our seats. The slow rolling of the wooden rocker gliding against the porch floor dances through the air around us, making me aware of the silence emanating from my big brother.
"Yup," he finally answers, low and menacing.
"He's . . . resurfacin'," I continue, figuring that's a damn good way of explaining his return.
"Meaning? He's comin' to settle out some things his paw left or something a little more . . . indefinite?"
"I would say the former."
Clay hisses a breath through his teeth, the sound harsh and sharp. "That what has you actin' like a lost pup?"
How do I explain to him how I feel? Men don't get this sort of stuff, or at least that's what my experience has taught me. Leigh does, and even though I know she would drop everything for me in an instant, she's got so much going on with her upcoming wedding that the last thing she needs is my bullshit. Which is why I've done my best to put on a good front with her since I called Tate in her office two weeks ago.
"I'm not really sure. I feel like I did back when I realized he really had disappeared without a word. You know we got close that last summer. The same hurt I felt then when I would call his number only to find it disconnected is back. I think about how he always said nothin' would keep us from our future--together--only to have him torpedo our relationship himself, and I feel rage. I'm sad that I've lived my whole adult life measurin' every man showin' interest in me against Tate and what he did. Now he's comin' back and the biggest thing I feel is fear because he still has such a powerful hold on me." I take in a gulp of air, feeling oddly close to tears. "I heard his voice on the phone, Clay, and the years just washed away. I have to stay angry. If I don't, I'm terrified I'll give him whatever he wants just to feel the happiness I had with him. That fear turns into an all-consumin' panic when I think, what if he casts his line, gets his hook back in me, then decides I'm not a catch worth keepin' and tosses me back again?"