Lori Foster - Worth The Wait

Her eyes, sultry a moment before, flared. “Your son?”

“Yeah.” The mention of a kid had often proved to be effective discouragement with a certain type of woman. Apparently, Joni was that type. “Colt’s seventeen, almost eighteen now,” he added, hopefully putting the nail in the coffin of her interest.

Straightening, Joni looked him over with suspicion. “You’re not old enough for that.”

“I’m thirty-five and I had Colt young.” One of the few things he didn’t regret from his youth.

“Your wife?” she asked bluntly.

Just as blunt, he answered, “Dead.” And he wasn’t explaining beyond that. “I have to run, but it looks like Derrick is hanging around. Given the way he smiles at you, I’m betting he’d love to get a drink.”

She wrinkled her nose, but sighed as if resigned. Proving she wasn’t yet entirely dissuaded, she gave him a long look and said, “I’ll catch you next time.” Turning, she headed for Derrick, who perked up at her approach.

Colt wasn’t there when Hogan got home. Neither was Diesel, their dog, but then, the dog often hung next door when he and Colt were away.

He checked his phone but didn’t see a message from his son. At almost eighteen, he understood that Colt wanted his independence, but one of his few rules was that he needed to give his father a call when he’d be late.

It wasn’t until Hogan stepped out of the shower that he heard Colt coming in, Diesel with him. Drying off, Hogan opened the bathroom door and asked, “Where’ve you been?”

“I was at Uncle Jason’s. You didn’t see my truck?”

Relaxing, Hogan shook his head. It wasn’t only the dog that liked to visit next door. He’d bought the small house next to his brother, Jason, when Jason married the woman who’d previously owned it.

Diesel hurried in to get some pats and show some love, then went back to sit next to Colt. Hogan should have realized where Colt would be but he’d been in such a rush, he hadn’t been aware of anything except his anticipation.

Insane—yet he seemed to have found his calling, and it wasn’t accounting.

While Hogan pulled on jeans, Colt leaned in the doorway, Diesel sitting beside him. At six-three, Colt was taller than both his father and his uncle. Broad-shouldered. Lean and muscular. Both Colt and Jason had dark brown eyes, whereas Hogan’s were a much lighter blue.

Colt hadn’t inherited much from him. Diesel, a shepherd mix they’d rescued that had first belonged to Honor but now adored Colt. He was fond of many people, but he was clearly Colt’s dog.

“I’m coming to the diner tonight, okay?”

“Sure.” Hogan glanced up after pulling on a polo. “A date?”

“Maybe.” Colt smiled crookedly. “It’s a group of us, but...”

“But?”

While he stroked the dog’s head, he said, “A new girl joined my chemistry class today.”

“Ah.” Hogan guessed, “Pretty?” Maybe his son had inherited something after all. Not entirely a good thing.

“Very.” Colt grinned. “I’m hoping to win her over before anyone else does.”

Probably wouldn’t take much effort. Once Colt had settled in after the move from Columbus to the much-smaller, quaint town of Clearbrook in Ohio, the girls had been flocking after him.

“So,” Hogan said, “is this a request that your old dad stays away, or can I meet her?”

Looking far too serious, Colt said, “You don’t need to hide away, ever.”

Hogan sat to pull on his boots. “If it becomes an issue—”

“It won’t be.”

Unsure when he’d become philosophical on the issue, Hogan said, “You know, if the girl is new around here, she might need a friend more than a hot date.”

“I’ll be both.” Colt straightened off the wall. “Gotta go. I’ve got grass-cutting jobs this weekend, so I want to finish my homework now. C’mon, Diesel.” The dog was already on his heels.

“Be sure to cut our grass, too, before you take off.”

With a wave, Colt headed to his incredibly messy room, so messy, in fact, that it kept him from being too perfect. Not that Diesel minded. He tended to sprawl on the piles of discarded clothes.

Smiling, Hogan wondered how he’d gotten so damn lucky. Lucky, at least when it came to his son.

He grabbed his keys and helmet, yelled a goodbye to Colt and headed out the door to his bike. The late-August evening hit his face like an open oven.

As he rode, the sweltering air tore across his face and he loved it. Sure, he’d first gotten the bike to indulge some idea of being a rebel with a “fuck you” attitude, as if that could make up for the past year of hell. He was over that now, mostly anyway, but he still loved the bike.

A few minutes later he pulled into the already-crowded lot of Screwy Louie’s, the town’s most popular diner. Accountant by day, Hogan thought as he strode in, barbecue master by night.

He stored his helmet and keys in a locker, found a stiff white apron and greeted the others who worked the evening weekend shift with him.

When he didn’t see Violet bustling about as was her usual preference, he stopped one of the waitresses. “Where is she?”

Knowing exactly whom he meant, the girl said, sotto voce, “Back office,” and added, “I think she’s sick.”

Frowning, Hogan started his massive grills so they could heat, took the racks of previously prepared ribs from the industrial refrigerators and then headed for the tiny office at the back of the building.

He and Violet had an understanding of sorts. He wanted her; she resisted. He didn’t make it easy on her, and she didn’t give him any leeway. So far, the cat and mouse game had been fun. He was still patient.

And still very determined.

It didn’t matter that he also worked for Violet; since this was a part-time job, not his career, the usual issue of mixing work with pleasure didn’t apply.

Grinning, he rapped his knuckles against the door and opened it.

With her rich red hair fanned out around her on the surface of the cluttered desk, Violet rested her head on her folded arms. Without looking up, she asked, “What do you want, Hogan?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

She tipped her face and one vivid blue eye peeked up at him through that fall of incredible hair. “Honey,” she drawled, “I know the sound of your walk, the way that you knock, and I know your scent.”

His brows lifted. “My scent?”

Sitting back with a grumpy sigh, she asked again, “What’d you want?”

Ignoring her mean mood, he said, “Besides you?” He heard her growl and his grin widened. “Why are you in here moping? Late night yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Before he could get jealous over that, she gestured at the scattered papers. “I fired my accountant, the miserable bastard.”

“Why?”

“None of your business. But now the accounts have piled up. I despise paperwork—you know that. I worked on it off and on all day yesterday and a big chunk of today, but I’m still not done.”

God, he loved her twangy voice, the way she drawled her words.

She gathered the papers together into a file and closed it, then stood to tuck it into an old metal file cabinet.

Her office was ancient and Hogan suspected her accountant’s ideas might have been, as well. Hesitating to overstep, or to take on more work, he asked, “Anything I can help with?”

“You already are, darlin’. Your ribs are a huge hit.” Using both hands, she finger-combed her hair into a high ponytail, then secured it with a cloth-covered rubber band that she pulled from her wrist. “I’m even looking into buying a special oven so you can keep it going through the winter months.”

Standing in the doorway, blocking her exit, he asked, “Who said I want to be here in the winter months?”