Loss in a Major by Michele G Miller

Author:Michele G Miller [Hayes, Michele G. Miller and Mindy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Michele G Miller

RIDLEY

My hand slips from the wrench I’m using, sending my knuckles into metal and slicing skin off my hand. Dammit.

Randi’s old beater rattles something fierce. It should have been easy for me to tighten bolts and check belts and caps, a way to kill time and work off my anxiety while I wait for Reagan to arrive, but this piece of junk doesn’t play nice. I shake my hand and blood trickles across my fingers. Cursing, I round the side of the car in search of a clean rag and stop in my tracks at the vision before me.

Reagan saunters my way in black shorts and a white button down rolled up at the elbows. It’s the most casual I’ve seen her. Her black shoes kick at the gravel. What in the heck is she wearing on her feet? They’re not heels, but the shiny, leather slip-ons are still fancy.

Man, how did I ever let this girl get away? Even with those not suitable for the ranch shoes.

“Hey.” She smiles. “Your mom said I’d find you here. She didn’t tell me you were dressed to impress.”

“Um, hey there.” I flash my bloody hand and peer down at my shirtless chest. “Obviously, I didn’t expect you to show up yet.”

Her eyes slowly trail up and down my naked torso before she finds my eyes. A flush spreads across her cheeks. I return her look with one of my own, skimming down her shapely legs.

“We said noon, right?”

“Is it noon already?” I check my watch. Sure enough, it is. “Dang, Percy is a pain in the … fist, evidently. Let me grab a rag. Come in the garage.”

Reagan watches her step around the toolbox and follows me inside. “Percy, huh? Who named the car that?”

“Randi and Remy did.” I pull a rag from the worktable. “Apparently they subscribed to Maisie’s naming convention. You know she leads their youth group now?”

“Mais mentioned it, yeah.” She chuckles and slips her hands into the front pockets of her shorts. “Little hard to picture her in that role. I can only imagine what she’s teaching those girls.”

“Probably the devil’s work.”

Reagan rests her hip against the worktable, easing into being here, and laughs. “Sounds about right.”

I dab at my fist and check the raw skin. Droplets of blood pop up on my middle finger, but the others are merely tender. Rummaging for the first-aid kit Dad keeps out here, I throw Reagan a glance over my shoulder. “So, as nice as you look”—and Lord knows she looks amazing—“I don’t think you’re dressed for a day at the ranch. Did you not leave any Kansas-worthy clothing at your parents’ house when you moved to the big city?”

“Everything I left is too small for me.” Her forehead creases. “You think I’d still fit into clothes from high school?”

I bite my tongue. No response will go over well here. She’s perfect. She was then, she is now. If her clothing doesn’t fit her from back then it’s because she’s curvier in all the right places, but she’s still the same little Hobbit she’s always been.

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