The driveway signal bell dinged, announcing a new customer at the pump. I heaved myself out of the chair with a sigh and hitched up my pants, stopping dead when I spied the driver of the classic muscle car. Long chestnut hair fell in curls over tanned shoulders, framing a full, heart-shaped face.
The station I’d inherited when Dad retired two years before sat on a secondary highway. We got our fair share of customers, locals mainly. The odd car would wander off the interstate and find its way to us.
A curvy brunette popped out of the driver’s door with a map in one hand, flirty sundress dancing in the breeze. Just another lost driver. Expecting only a hearty thank you as I sent her back to the interstate, I slapped a smile on my face and headed out the door.
“Howdy, miss.” I admired the curves of the red 1970 Cougar while licking my lips over the curves of, I was guessing, the ninety-eight brunette. “Anything I can help you with?”
She turned, deep blue eyes taking a leisurely stroll up to my six-foot-three self. Now, I was no Jason Momoa, but I was nothing to laugh at either. Been working in the garage attached to the gas station since I could walk. Broad-shouldered, thick muscular arms, neatly trimmed beard, friendly brown eyes and a mop of red-oak hair in need of a barber’s chair.
Her eyes widened as they travelled upwards. Pink tongue tipped out to lick...