Janie Crouch - Leverage

It was only because of Shelby’s hypervigilance behind the wheel that she’d managed to stay on the road and not drive off the side of the mountain altogether. Shelby wasn’t 100 percent sure of her driving skills—she really didn’t drive terribly often, and never on roads like these—so she’d wanted to make sure she was paying extra-careful attention.

And thank goodness, because that idiot hadn’t even seen her. Didn’t slow down, stop, give an “oops, I’m sorry” wave or anything. Shelby could’ve been flipped upside down at the bottom of the ravine right now and she doubted the other driver would’ve even noticed. He, or she, just sped on.

So, all in all, not a great start to this adventure. And adventure was very much Megan’s word, not Shelby’s. Shelby’s idea of adventure was more along the lines of trying the new Thai place across town, or branching off in a new direction for a video game she was developing. This whole scenario was way beyond adventure in Shelby’s opinion.

Shelby opened her car door and heard thunder cracking in the darkening sky. Great. More adventure to add to the adventure. Could small planes even take off in a thunderstorm?

Shelby walked to the door of the diner and entered. How would she know who Dylan Branson was? Inside she looked around. There were a couple of middle-aged guys and a woman at the counter, an older lady at the cash register and a teenage waitress carrying food to a couple at a table near the door. Some dark-haired Calvin Klein–looking model sat back in the corner booth—yeah, Shelby wished she could be that lucky—and a shorter, stockier man in khakis and a pretty bad polo shirt sat at a table near him.

Nobody was wearing a Trust Me, I’m the Pilot T-shirt or held a sign with her name. So evidently Shelby wasn’t going to be able to slip in without having to talk to anyone except Megan’s brother-in-law.

Shelby approached the lady at the cash register. “Hi, excuse me—”

“Oh, my goodness. Honey, you’re not from around here. I would remember that hair anywhere.” The woman’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it was loud, drawing the attention of pretty much everyone at the diner.

Shelby sighed. Remarks about her hair weren’t uncommon. It was red. Not a sweet, gentle auburn, but full-on red: garnet, poppies, wisps-of-fire red—Shelby had heard all the analogies. If she’d been born a few centuries earlier, she would’ve been burned at the stake as a witch just for her coloring.

Shelby tended to forget how much it grabbed people’s attention when they first met her. “Um, yeah. It’s really red, I know. I was wondering—”

“You couldn’t get that color out of a bottle, I imagine. Especially not with your skin coloring. Your hair must be natural.”

See? This was case and point why Shelby tended not to want to talk to people. Because really, did she have to go into her natural coloring with someone she’d known for less than ten seconds? Shelby didn’t want to be rude, but neither did she want to talk about which side of the family her coloring was from.

And Shelby was sure that question, or something very similar, would be the next inquiry from the cash register lady.

“Yeah.” Shelby remained noncommittal about the hair. “I’m looking for somebody. A pilot. His name is Dylan Branson. He was supposed to meet me here.”

“Oh, yeah, honey, he’s right over there.” The lady gestured toward the corner, and Shelby looked over. Great, it was the balding guy in the bad polo shirt. Shelby thanked her and headed that way before the woman could ask any more questions about her hair.

Dylan Branson was eating what looked like meat loaf at his table and had just put a huge forkful into his mouth when Shelby walked up to him.

“Hi, Dylan Branson, right? I’m Shelby Keelan.”

The man looked over at Shelby and his eyes bulged. He held his hand up in front of his mouth, rapidly chewing, and began standing up.

“No, don’t get up. I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal.”

Shelby sat down across from him. Of course, the polite thing for Branson to do would’ve been to wait until she got there and then eat together, rather than shoveling food in right when he was supposed to meet her. But whatever. Shelby just hoped Megan’s husband was a little more considerate than his brother.

And for the sake of her friend, Shelby hoped he was a little more handsome, too. Not balding and portly, like Dylan here. But maybe follically challenged didn’t run in the Branson family, just this one brother.

And he was still chewing. How big of a bite could he have taken, for goodness’ sake? The look he was giving her over his moving jaw was clearly confused.

“Take your time.” Shelby smiled. She didn’t want him to choke or anything. That wouldn’t get her to DC very quickly.

“Oh, honey, not Tucker,” the lady called out from behind the cash register, pointing to the man eating. Then she looked past Shelby to the booth beyond her in the corner. “Dylan Branson, shame on you. You knew this young lady was looking for you. You should’ve said something.”

“I would’ve, Sally. But I wanted to see if Tucker would actually choke on the meat loaf while trying to talk to her first.”

The deep voice came from the booth behind Shelby. She didn’t need to look up to see who it was. She knew. The dark-haired, sexy-as-sin Calvin Klein model.

Chapter Three

The attraction punched him in the gut. Dylan had been punched enough times to know clear and well what it felt like: it stole your breath, caused you to wonder which end was up, made your whole body tingle.

Of course, it was usually followed by agony. But in this case it might be worth it.

Striking was the only word for Shelby Keelan. Her red hair fell around her face and shoulders in long wisps and curls that had escaped from the loose braid she seemed to have attempted at some point. Her eyes —now looking at him rather than Tucker—were a clear emerald green with a hint of gold in them.

But, for the love of all things holy, it was her freckles that were killing him. Scattered across her nose, her cheeks, her forehead. They were quite possibly the most alluring thing he had ever seen.

Shelby Keelan wasn’t a traditional beauty, but she was striking.

From his corner booth where he could see the main entrance, kitchen entrance and emergency exit—old habits died hard—Dylan had seen her come in. He’d been almost positive who she was from that moment, and then her brief conversation with Sally had confirmed it.

He should’ve said something when she sat down at the table near his booth and started talking to Tucker, but he couldn’t resist seeing how that played out. Poor Tucker still looked as if he was going to have a heart attack.

Shelby Keelan sat in her seat at Tucker’s table, her green eyes zeroed in on Dylan. She did not look amused.

“Confused strangers are the top entertainment around here, I take it?”

Uh-oh. Dylan stood, giving Shelby his most charming smile. “Not usually, I promise. I just couldn’t resist seeing how Tucker was going to react.”

Tucker was still staring at Shelby. “I, uh, I mean, I’m not Dylan Branson.” He finally got the words out, much too late to be helpful.

Dylan walked over and slapped Tucker on the back good-naturedly. “I think she caught that much, Tuck. Ms. Keelan is dropping off some items for me to deliver.” Dylan looked over at Shelby and held out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Dylan Branson. A pleasure to meet you.”

Shelby stood and grasped Dylan’s hand. Dylan shook it, then kept it, glad when she didn’t snatch it away, and led her over to his booth. “Let’s leave Tucker to finish his meat loaf.”