Page 7 of Hauling Ashe

“It’s called opening a door. Anyone who is a gentleman might recognize it.” I don’t need a man to open doors for me, but the traditionalism of gentlemanly behavior would be welcome. In my early years, this action was called manners. But, he’s the one lugging baggage and I have free hands, so I opened the door for him.

“I mean, why are you going inside?”

“We are going inside for breakfast,” I state. “It’s the most important meal of the day.” Plus, I love pancakes and I’d read the ones here are delicious.

Tucker, as my sister had reminded me was his first name, tilts his head as he glares back at me. “I don’t think I can trust you around a cup of coffee.”

If he were anyone else, I’d be expecting a slight smile to follow his sarcasm, but from what I’ve learned of him, he’s dead serious. Jane told me Mr. Ashford is the strictest of professionals. And I wonder for the millionth time how my sister talked me into this situation.

Swallowing back the chuckle in my throat, I shrug. “Suit yourself.” My eyes roam his attire, which might be another thousand-dollar suit for all I know. The dark navy color of this one highlights his eyes, hinting at a touch of blue within the steely gray irises. His more salt than pepper facial hair is apparent today as a thin sheen of bristle speckles his jaw. Those edgy cheekbones are male model-worthy, and I wonder for half a second if he was a model. Jane informed me he has expensive taste and fashion sense, but she wouldn’t give me more information. She hesitated when I asked what his deal was. Why did he talk to her the way he did? Why did she address him as she did?

“It’s a sign of respect. He’s my boss.”

“He’s only a man.” A good looking one at that, but he’s arrogant. “And he’s our age.”

Jane only shook her head, dismissing me as the country bumpkin she thinks I am. I hate to remind my sister that I own my business while she’s working for someone, so I don’t mention it. What Jane does is important in its own right, and most of all, what Jane does she does because it’s her life. No two Fox sisters have traveled the same path.

While Tucker decides to remain on the sidewalk, I enter the restaurant and take a deep breath.

Step One.

I wanted to return to the BEGIN sign this morning and then travel to the diner, taking my time to mentally absorb the fact I’m really doing this. I’m really going to drive across the country from one coast to another. Okay, Lake Michigan isn’t considered a coast of the United States, but it should be. The third coast should be a thing. However, I took my pictures yesterday by the sign and as my trip is being condensed to a week’s journey, I’m forging onward.

The hostess leads me to a booth, and I slip onto the bench seat, perusing the menu after ordering a black coffee with cream and sugar. No mochaccino here. As I scan the breakfast selections, a body flops into the seat across from me. I don’t look up.

“Look, I’m sorry how things went down yesterday. I know this isn’t the best of solutions, but I have a business to run. I have calls to make and reports to read, and we need to get on the road. I need to be in California by Wednesday.”

Refusing to visually acknowledge him, I continue to stare at the menu when I respond. “I don’t think we can make it before Friday.”

“My daughter’s rehearsal dinner is Friday. I need to be in L.A. by Wednesday.”

My head pops up, and I stare at him, ignoring his dictating tone but suddenly understanding his rush to reach California. “Friday gives us wiggle room.”

“I don’t want wiggle room.” On anyone else, that statement might sound silly. On him, it’s ridiculous and I can’t help the chuckle that finally escapes at his expense. He’s so uptight compared to the smiling man of yesterday. The one with sparkling silver eyes and firm hands on my hips.

“Again, suit yourself.” I glance back at the menu, but the stiff plastic is pressed down to the table, followed by the sharp thud of his palm.

“I’m not joking around with you.”

“I’m not anything with you. You need the ride, not me.” Slipping the menu free of his flattened hand, I lift it to cover my face and block out the view of him.

Who does he think he is? A fucking rock star or something?

He exhales. “Fine. Breakfast. Only coffee and to-go.”

I lower the menu enough to see that silver-sheened hair on him and I’m grateful the waitress returns to take my order before I smack him over the head with the flimsy plastic sheet.

“What can I get you?” she asks, all Midwestern sweet.

“Coffee. To-go,” Mr. Ashford barks.

“Pancakes and bacon. For here.” My eyes narrow at him while the waitress takes my menu and steps away. The tension between myself and the ass I’m hauling across the country is thicker than the chocolate syrup in a mochaccino, and if I had some, I’d pour it over my breakfast companion. He needs some sweetening.

“We need to establish a few things,” he states, and I narrow my eyes even more at him. His eyes avoid mine. “I have work to conduct during the day, but I could share in some driving time in the evenings if that gets us there faster.”

No way in hell is he driving my car.

“We need to discuss sleeping arrangements.”