the right man,” Colt spoke up for the first time since entering the diner. Not that it was easy to get a word in edgewise with the folks of Bramble. Especially Rachel Dean.
Rachel turned to Colt and studied him as if just realizing he sat there. A smile creased her weathered face, and she moved past Hope’s empty cup, right on over to his.
“Well, it looks like you got yourself a golden tongue while you was in prison, Colt Lomax.” She sent him a saucy wink as she poured his coffee. “And I can’t say as I don’t prefer it to that chip you carried around on your shoulder as a kid.”
Since Colt had never taken criticism well, Hope waited for him to take offense. Instead, he gave Rachel a sexy, gray-eyed wink of his own before he took a sip of coffee and closed his eyes in euphoric satisfaction.
Annoyed that she wasn’t experiencing the same enjoyment, Hope tapped a finger on the rim of her cup. But Rachel couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Colt. Not that she could blame the woman, or any of the other womenin the diner, who had lost interest in her food to stare at the man who exuded a raw, masculine sex appeal in his travel-worn clothes and dark scruffy stubble.
Like a regular at a local bar, Colt straddled the red vinyl stool, his knees almost touching the counter where his bare forearms rested. Tattoos snaked up the arm furthest from her, while the one closest boasted nothing more than hard, tanned muscle, covered in a sprinkling of silky black hair. The muscles led to a thick wrist and a hand scarred and calloused from tinkering with machines.
Hope watched as his hand lifted the white porcelain mug to his firm, unsmiling lips. But before he took a sip, the cup halted. She glanced up and found him watching her, his eyes bemused. Not wanting to appear guilty, she stared back. They gazed at one another for a few moments until his eyes lowered to her chest. His brows knotted.
“Rachel,” he called, even though the woman wasn’t more than six inches away. “You have a sweater or something for Hope to put on?”
Hope’s eyes shot down to the front of her shirt, and she quickly crossed her arms as Rachel scurried to do his bidding.
Shirlene laughed. “If you didn’t wander around half dressed, honey,” she said as she stirred five packets of sugar substitute into her coffee, “your teacup handles wouldn’t be showin’.”
“Real funny, Shirl.” But that didn’t stop her from taking the ugly gray sweater and slipping it on—with the annoying help of one very cocky motorcycle bum.
“Nice to see you remember your manners, son,” Harley said, before he leaned over the counter to whispersomething in Rachel’s ear. She nodded and moved back to stand in front of Hope.
“Manners is a nice thing for a man to have,” Rachel said. “Neither one of my husbands had a manner one, although Homer always said a polite ‘excuse me’ after he burped or farted.”
Colt choked on his coffee, but had the manners to whisper a quick “excuse me” before Rachel continued.
“But worse than that, in my opinion, is a man who don’t take responsibility for his own actions.” She lifted her nonexistent eyebrows at Hope, as if to convey some message Hope wasn’t getting.
Nor was she getting any coffee.
“She’s right,” Sheriff Winslow chimed in from his spot further down the counter. “There’s nothing lower than a scoundrel who won’t own up to his mistakes.”
Knowing the town could go on and on about something that had nothing to do with anything, Hope finally spoke up.
“Could I get some coffee?”
After topping off Colt’s cup, Rachel held up the half-full pot. “You don’t want this coffee, honey, it’s been sittin’ out too long.” She dumped it in the sink and grabbed a pitcher of orange juice. “Now let me pour you a glass of OJ. All that vitamin C is much better for a body than caffeine.”
“I don’t want orange juice,” Hope stated as Rachel set the glass down in front of
Rachel turned to Colt and studied him as if just realizing he sat there. A smile creased her weathered face, and she moved past Hope’s empty cup, right on over to his.
“Well, it looks like you got yourself a golden tongue while you was in prison, Colt Lomax.” She sent him a saucy wink as she poured his coffee. “And I can’t say as I don’t prefer it to that chip you carried around on your shoulder as a kid.”
Since Colt had never taken criticism well, Hope waited for him to take offense. Instead, he gave Rachel a sexy, gray-eyed wink of his own before he took a sip of coffee and closed his eyes in euphoric satisfaction.
Annoyed that she wasn’t experiencing the same enjoyment, Hope tapped a finger on the rim of her cup. But Rachel couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Colt. Not that she could blame the woman, or any of the other womenin the diner, who had lost interest in her food to stare at the man who exuded a raw, masculine sex appeal in his travel-worn clothes and dark scruffy stubble.
Like a regular at a local bar, Colt straddled the red vinyl stool, his knees almost touching the counter where his bare forearms rested. Tattoos snaked up the arm furthest from her, while the one closest boasted nothing more than hard, tanned muscle, covered in a sprinkling of silky black hair. The muscles led to a thick wrist and a hand scarred and calloused from tinkering with machines.
Hope watched as his hand lifted the white porcelain mug to his firm, unsmiling lips. But before he took a sip, the cup halted. She glanced up and found him watching her, his eyes bemused. Not wanting to appear guilty, she stared back. They gazed at one another for a few moments until his eyes lowered to her chest. His brows knotted.
“Rachel,” he called, even though the woman wasn’t more than six inches away. “You have a sweater or something for Hope to put on?”
Hope’s eyes shot down to the front of her shirt, and she quickly crossed her arms as Rachel scurried to do his bidding.
Shirlene laughed. “If you didn’t wander around half dressed, honey,” she said as she stirred five packets of sugar substitute into her coffee, “your teacup handles wouldn’t be showin’.”
“Real funny, Shirl.” But that didn’t stop her from taking the ugly gray sweater and slipping it on—with the annoying help of one very cocky motorcycle bum.
“Nice to see you remember your manners, son,” Harley said, before he leaned over the counter to whispersomething in Rachel’s ear. She nodded and moved back to stand in front of Hope.
“Manners is a nice thing for a man to have,” Rachel said. “Neither one of my husbands had a manner one, although Homer always said a polite ‘excuse me’ after he burped or farted.”
Colt choked on his coffee, but had the manners to whisper a quick “excuse me” before Rachel continued.
“But worse than that, in my opinion, is a man who don’t take responsibility for his own actions.” She lifted her nonexistent eyebrows at Hope, as if to convey some message Hope wasn’t getting.
Nor was she getting any coffee.
“She’s right,” Sheriff Winslow chimed in from his spot further down the counter. “There’s nothing lower than a scoundrel who won’t own up to his mistakes.”
Knowing the town could go on and on about something that had nothing to do with anything, Hope finally spoke up.
“Could I get some coffee?”
After topping off Colt’s cup, Rachel held up the half-full pot. “You don’t want this coffee, honey, it’s been sittin’ out too long.” She dumped it in the sink and grabbed a pitcher of orange juice. “Now let me pour you a glass of OJ. All that vitamin C is much better for a body than caffeine.”
“I don’t want orange juice,” Hope stated as Rachel set the glass down in front of
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