Dirty Thoughts - Megan Erickson Page 0,72
so much.
Delilah wasn’t having his attitude, apparently. Her expression told him he was trying her patience. “Yes, shopping, you big grease monkey. Now get a shirt on and let’s go.”
“And where are we going exactly?”
“The mall.”
He swore his neck started to itch, like hives were forming. “This isn’t funny.”
She placed a hand on her hip in a flourish. “Does it look like I’m laughing? Jenna asked me to do this, so if you wanna keep her sweet ass in this little ol’ house of yours, I suggest you get dressed and then get it my car.”
Okay, he drew the line there. “I am not getting in that fucking car.”
She scowled. “Don’t you dare insult Daisy—”
“Oh, Jesus, you named that damn thing?”
“She’s reliable and cute and—”
“I will go shopping with you on the condition that we take my truck.”
Delilah’s nostrils flared. “Is it clean?”
Cal scrunched his lips to the side before replying. “I’ll put a towel down.”
Delilah shuddered a little. “Fine, now just go get dressed.”
It was a small victory, but he’d take it.
HE DREW THE line at a tie. He accepted the navy dress pants, white cotton shirt, and tan sport coat. But no way in hell was he going to be able to deal with all the assholes at this party with a noose around his neck.
Delilah wasn’t thrilled about his refusal but seemed happy with all his other purchases, including a pair of dress shoes that he knew he’d burn in an elaborate funeral pyre when this was all over.
He wasn’t a dick, though, so he offered to buy Delilah lunch. She’d taken time out of her day to argue with his sorry blue-collar ass. The least he could do was buy her a burger.
Of course, Delilah didn’t want a burger.
They found a restaurant near the mall that Delilah liked, and while Cal ate his burger, Delilah dug into her salad. It was huge, the plate taking up nearly a quarter of the table, and she was eating it all.
Cal didn’t know where she put it.
“So,” she said after taking a sip of her water, “you’re probably going to hate this party.”
He swirled a fry in ketchup. “Yep.”
“But you’re doing it for Jenna.”
“Yep.”
Delilah shifted her lips to the side. “You know there are some women in town who are really sad you’re off the market.”
“Was never on it,” he grunted.
“Brent’s on it.”
That made him grin. “He loves it.”
Delilah smiled too. “Lovable asshole.” Delilah stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork. “So Jenna said you want to work on motorcycles at the shop.”
“Trying to convince Dad. But he says we don’t have enough manpower.”
“Are you able to hire someone else?”
“I had Brent crunch the numbers, and we could hire another mechanic if he was willing to take base salary.”
She crunched her tomato and swallowed. “I know someone.”
That brought his head up. “Yeah?”
Delilah studied him carefully. “Yep, a friend of a friend kind of thing. She’s really good and is looking to get her foot in the door.”
“She, huh?” He chuckled. “You trying to slip that past me?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m still working on Dad. Have her send me her résumé, will ya?”
“Sure.”
“And . . . uh . . . thanks for today. I don’t really care what I look like, but I don’t want to make Jenna look bad.”
She touched the back of his hand where it rested on the table. “And you won’t. You could walk in there in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and Jenna wouldn’t give a shit.”
“Ya think?”
“I know. But it’ll make her family happy. And I must say, you look quite handsome in those clothes.”
Cal popped an imaginary collar, and Delilah laughed.
JENNA HAD DONE a lot for MacMillan Investments since she’d been hired. She’d reworked their mission statement and was partnering with a graphic designer to update the company logo. She’d improved communication among staff and management. Hell, she’d even bought a damn Keurig for the break room, which she liked to think might have been the best thing she’d done yet. And she was currently in the midst of planning the biggest event the company had ever sponsored.
But all her brother could do was bitch about how Cal was coming to the country club as her date.
“You’ll be busy coordinating anyway,” he said, glaring at her from behind his desk. “Why do you have to bring a date?”
“Why do you care?” she shot back, drumming her nails on the arm of the chair. He’d called her into his office under the pretense of asking her a