Stud Muffin (Donner Bakery #2) - Jiffy Kate Page 0,32

someone to talk to that isn’t close to me or my family or Asher might be exactly what I need. If Cage is willing to fill that role, I’ll take him up on it.

Chapter 8

Cage

I have no idea what it is about Tempest that makes me want to talk, but being in her presence has turned me into a fucking Chatty Cathy. Normally, I’m very tight-lipped. Unless I’m around people I know well, I don’t have a lot to say. My actions have always spoken louder than my words, giving me a reprieve from small talk.

Maybe it’s because there’s this crazy connection I can’t ignore that makes her feel like she’s an old friend. When I told her we should be friends at the picnic, I don’t even know where that came from. It’s like I opened my mouth and the words just tumbled out. Now, here we are, in the same truck I drove her home in the other night and I’m trying to keep my eyes on the road instead of that fucking green dress she’s wearing.

It brings out her eyes, making them greener than the pine trees.

“My grandpa used to play with Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs,” she says. “They were the Foggy Mountain Boys… not that you’d know who they are, but they were a bluegrass group that played on the Grand Ole Opry. He didn’t play with them officially, but they’d have jam sessions.” I glance over to see her soft smile. “He loved bluegrass and country western… all the old stuff, which I guess wasn’t old to him. I can remember sitting on the center console of his truck… you know, before they enforced seatbelts… driving down the road. Just me, him, and George Jones or Patsy Cline.”

I could listen to her talk all damn day. She has a soft lilt to her voice, but there’s also a raspiness I noticed from the first night. It’s a little grittier than you’d expect, given her exterior, which makes it even more intriguing… it makes her even more intriguing.

“You, uh… turn,” she starts and stops when she realizes I already know how to get to her house. “Right.” She’s quiet for a minute as we drive down the road leading to her house. “Thanks again… for the other night. I don’t usually… do that.”

I didn’t figure.

Even from the moment I saw her sitting in my spot, I knew she was somewhat out of her element.

“Don’t mention it,” I tell her, not wanting her to feel bad about it. “We all need to blow off a little steam from time to time.”

This time when she laughs, it’s lost all humor. “I’ve done my fair share of that lately.”

“I’ve heard,” I say before thinking.

“I’m sure you have.” Her tone is resolved, maybe even a bit defeated, and I hate it.

“Hey,” I say, getting her attention. “I form my own opinions, remember?” The smile she gives me is weak, not the one I’m looking for. “So, why don’t you tell me your story… set the record straight.”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Why? Why do you want to know? Why do you care?”

I see the distrust in her eyes. She’s guarded and I don’t blame her.

“Maybe I’m just… bored,” I say with a shrug, trying to blow it off like it’s no big deal whether she tells me or not—feigning disinterest. “Besides, if we’re going to be friends, I think I should know your story.”

Under that load of shit, the truth is buried—you’re an enigma, Tempest Cassidy… help me understand you better. She smiles again, still guarded, but a little less so. When she swallows and brushes a strand of her red hair behind her ear, I know she’s going to at least give me something.

“It’s simple, really,” she starts, shifting in her seat as we pull into her drive. With her eyes trained on the yellow house, she continues, “I walked in on my husband in bed with someone else… that was almost four months ago. Since then, I’ve destroyed our bedroom, burned his clothes, broke into his house, stole a football, and parked his truck in Mr. Miller’s pond.” Sighing, I think she’s going to stop there, but she doesn’t. Turning toward me, she says, “I’ve spent two nights in jail, paid over a thousand dollars in fines, and been sentenced to twenty-four hours of anger management.”

Our eyes lock and I feel the load she’s been carrying.

“The night you drove me home, I was celebrating my