Page 5 of Small Town Boy

She hangs up before I can say anything else. Not that there was anything left to say. I’d been given my marching orders. Time to follow them.

Forty minutes later—almost to the minute—I’m pulling up to the arrivals section of Hartsfield-Jackson airport. As one would expect from the busiest passenger airport in the world, the sidewalk is a mob scene, making it difficult to look for anyone. Much less someone you don’t actually know. This Bronwyn could be anybody.

I squint, as if that’s going to help me see a petite blonde woman in black pants and a purple blouse any better. I should have asked Willa to be more specific about the color purple. As in the color of lilacs or the color of irises? Or maybe we’re talking hyacinth or verbena?

I’m just about to give up and go park, convinced I’m never going to find her this way, when I see her. And my heart stops.

Standing on the very edge of the curb, closer to door S4 than S3, is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. No, not a girl—woman. She’s taller than I expected. Not a giant by any means, but still taller than I would call petite. Her hair is the color of local honey, and the way it shimmers in the sunlight is the stuff dreams are made of.

Dirty, dirty dreams.

Holy shit, who am I?!

I snap out of it long enough to pull over. Bronwyn’s eyes light up, recognition in her features as her eyes scan up and down my truck. In a flash, I throw it in park and hop out, rounding the bed and greeting her.

“Hi.”

The single syllable is rushed, like I’m a thirteen-year-old boy standing in front of a supermodel in a bikini, at a loss for words. Which is exactly what I feel like. I have a good six inches on her, and she’s tiny enough that I think she might fit in my back pocket, but there’s something about her. Something that makes it so I can’t tear my eyes away, and that ties my tongue in knots.

“Noel?”

“Yeah. Hi.” Dude, learn some words. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same. I’m Bronwyn. Thank you so much for doing this. It’s been a day and I…well, anyway. Thank you.”

I grab her suitcase, tossing it in the bed of my truck. I assume that she’ll want to hold on to the tote bag that she currently has slung over her shoulder. I smile at her, my insides starting to relax. Her beauty is still breathtaking, but at least my wits are returning. As are my manners.

Please no one tell my mama that this good southern boy forgot them for a moment.

Opening the passenger door, I gesture for her to climb in. “No problem, honey. Happy to come to your rescue.”

Bronwyn stops dead in her tracks, hip jutting out, brows furrowed together as she looks down her nose at me—even as she’s looking up. Uh-oh.

“Honey? Yeah, no. And I don’t need rescuing.”

3

BRONWYN

And we’re off to a great start. Said no one.

The sound of asphalt under the tires is the only noise as we make our way down the interstate toward Hickory Hills. The silence is awkward, borderline deafening, both of us staring straight ahead as the road disappears under the hood of his truck.

At this rate, it’s going to be a very long trip.

I’ve only been to Hickory Hills once, and only for the day as part of my final interview with Hayes. It’s a cute, small southern town, full of charm and character. It’s also a lot farther south of Atlanta than I had initially realized. That, or Georgia is a bigger state than I had realized. Probably both.

For someone who hates driving and avoids it at all costs, the three-hour trip from the airport to Hayes headquarters was brutal. Same with the trek back up to the airport. But I told myself then that the job was worth it.

I still believe that.

I’m also wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch.

Shifting on the bench seat, I try to relax. I don’t know if it’s the events of the day, general nerves about this move, or the fact that Noel called me “honey” within six seconds of meeting me, but I’m on edge. And I need to not be. So, regardless of what the reason—or reasons—I need to find a way to work out all the knots in my stomach. To be myself. Not some cold, distant version.

Then again, to be myself, I have to find myself again. Which is part of why I took this job. That, and I was in desperate need of one after everything that went down at my last job. Things that put me on edge and kept me there for six months—wary of every relationship I have and desperate to get back on track.

Which is why I’m in the cab of a beat-up truck, with a man who called me “honey.” An attractive man—no, Noel’s more than attractive. He’s sexy. Stop and sneak a second look sexy. Answer your bestie’s phone call with “OMG, I just saw the hottest guy” sexy.