regular service soon. But I’ll, uh, be sure to have them check it out.”
“Suit yourself.” Wiley stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans and led them through the garage, where the blare of the radio and the clanging of tools made conversation impossible. “We’ll use my manager’s office,” he said as they followed him through the tire showroom and entered an office, which was shaped like a shoe box and roughly the same size. It was unclear how all three of them would fit without benefit of a shoehorn.
Ross waved her into the single guest chair—which along with a battered metal desk, chair, and ancient file cabinet were the only furnishings in the room—then wedged himself between Shelley and the file cabinet, a chivalrous act that left his hip and thigh practically embedded in her shoulder.
Despite the fact that she was the one seated directly across from him, Haynes spoke to Ross. “This here was my first location, and I’m opening my sixth at the end of April. As I told your assistant here on the phone,” he nodded toward Shelley, “I don’t have a whole hell of a lot left over for advertisin’.”
Assistant?
The flush of anger worked its way up her spine. “But I’m not—” she began.
“I’m sure you don’t know too much about tahrs,” he said to her. “Fortunately, your boss appears to know his way around a vehicle.”
“What I was trying to say,” Shelley bit out, “is that I’m actually your account executive. Mr. Morgan is just—”
“Really pleased to be here,” Ross interrupted. “We’ve been wanting to talk to you about your business for some time. We think there’s a lot more we could do for you besides just placing occasional newspaper ads.”
Wrestling with her annoyance, Shelley snapped open her briefcase and pulled out the proposal she’d put together. “I went ahead and worked up a—”
“Phew,” Wiley interrupted. “I have got to get that AC unit fixed. It’s hotter than a witch’s—” He shot Shelley an apologetic look. “Sorry, ma’am.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a stack of quarters, which he set on the desk and pushed toward Shelley. “How’d you like to run on over to the Coke machine out in the garage and get us all somethin’ cold to drink?” he asked. “My treat.”
Shelley’s mouth may have fallen open. There was a not-so-subtle pressure on her shoulder, and she knew exactly what Ross was trying to tell her. But then, it was easy for him to expect her to be diplomatic; he wasn’t the one who’d just been sent out for drinks.
She closed her mouth and swallowed back her outrage. “Sure.” She scooped the quarters off the scarred desk and left the office, barely resisting the urge to walk out the front door, hop in the impressive-mobile, and peel out of there.
When she entered the garage, conversation ceased, and she could actually feel every eye in the place glom on to her rear end. She moved slowly to the Coke machine and then carefully—so as not to drop any change she’d have to bend over and pick up—fed the coins into the machine. Clutching the cold cans to her chest, she made her way out of the garage and back through the showroom.
In the office she delivered the refreshments without comment and took her seat in the metal folding chair—smack up against Ross Morgan’s rock hard body and the tons of heat it was throwing off.
“Thank you, little lady.”
She knew Wiley Haynes hadn’t really called her that, because this was, after all, the twenty-first century. The pressure on her shoulder told her that he had.
“Mr. Haynes,” she said as calmly as she could. “I assure you I am—”
“Ross here tells me you prepared this report.” He held up the proposal she hadn’t had the chance to hand out.
“Yes.” Surprised, she fumbled in her briefcase for her copy.
“So maybe you know a little more about tahrs than I gave you credit for.”
“Well . . .”
The pressure on her shoulder was
“Suit yourself.” Wiley stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans and led them through the garage, where the blare of the radio and the clanging of tools made conversation impossible. “We’ll use my manager’s office,” he said as they followed him through the tire showroom and entered an office, which was shaped like a shoe box and roughly the same size. It was unclear how all three of them would fit without benefit of a shoehorn.
Ross waved her into the single guest chair—which along with a battered metal desk, chair, and ancient file cabinet were the only furnishings in the room—then wedged himself between Shelley and the file cabinet, a chivalrous act that left his hip and thigh practically embedded in her shoulder.
Despite the fact that she was the one seated directly across from him, Haynes spoke to Ross. “This here was my first location, and I’m opening my sixth at the end of April. As I told your assistant here on the phone,” he nodded toward Shelley, “I don’t have a whole hell of a lot left over for advertisin’.”
Assistant?
The flush of anger worked its way up her spine. “But I’m not—” she began.
“I’m sure you don’t know too much about tahrs,” he said to her. “Fortunately, your boss appears to know his way around a vehicle.”
“What I was trying to say,” Shelley bit out, “is that I’m actually your account executive. Mr. Morgan is just—”
“Really pleased to be here,” Ross interrupted. “We’ve been wanting to talk to you about your business for some time. We think there’s a lot more we could do for you besides just placing occasional newspaper ads.”
Wrestling with her annoyance, Shelley snapped open her briefcase and pulled out the proposal she’d put together. “I went ahead and worked up a—”
“Phew,” Wiley interrupted. “I have got to get that AC unit fixed. It’s hotter than a witch’s—” He shot Shelley an apologetic look. “Sorry, ma’am.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a stack of quarters, which he set on the desk and pushed toward Shelley. “How’d you like to run on over to the Coke machine out in the garage and get us all somethin’ cold to drink?” he asked. “My treat.”
Shelley’s mouth may have fallen open. There was a not-so-subtle pressure on her shoulder, and she knew exactly what Ross was trying to tell her. But then, it was easy for him to expect her to be diplomatic; he wasn’t the one who’d just been sent out for drinks.
She closed her mouth and swallowed back her outrage. “Sure.” She scooped the quarters off the scarred desk and left the office, barely resisting the urge to walk out the front door, hop in the impressive-mobile, and peel out of there.
When she entered the garage, conversation ceased, and she could actually feel every eye in the place glom on to her rear end. She moved slowly to the Coke machine and then carefully—so as not to drop any change she’d have to bend over and pick up—fed the coins into the machine. Clutching the cold cans to her chest, she made her way out of the garage and back through the showroom.
In the office she delivered the refreshments without comment and took her seat in the metal folding chair—smack up against Ross Morgan’s rock hard body and the tons of heat it was throwing off.
“Thank you, little lady.”
She knew Wiley Haynes hadn’t really called her that, because this was, after all, the twenty-first century. The pressure on her shoulder told her that he had.
“Mr. Haynes,” she said as calmly as she could. “I assure you I am—”
“Ross here tells me you prepared this report.” He held up the proposal she hadn’t had the chance to hand out.
“Yes.” Surprised, she fumbled in her briefcase for her copy.
“So maybe you know a little more about tahrs than I gave you credit for.”
“Well . . .”
The pressure on her shoulder was
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