Page 3 of Romero and Juliette

FleetwdLvr05: You’re dangerously good at this, Ranger.

Mustang_Ranger: At what?

FleetwdLvr05: Making me smile.

chapter

two

Cruz

Everything started at that goddamn Bluebonnet Festival, back in the spring. I’d been minding my own business, sitting with my buddies at the beer tent and she’d walked by. It was the long blonde hair that had caught my attention at first, but then her luscious curves had locked in my gaze.

I’d nodded towards her and asked my friend, Dane, “Who’s Princess Buttercup over there?”

He’d taken one look and had laughed.

When she’d finally turned around and I’d seen her face… well, that’s when I knew I was so screwed. Sure, she was gorgeous, but the moment I saw her face, I knew why Dane was laughing. Stunning or not, she was clearly way too young for the likes of me. Besides, there are too many beautiful women in the world for me to chase one who is too young to have a proper conversation with.

So I let it go, determined to forget about her.

Fate had other things in mind. And Saddle Creek is a small town. Two days later, I’m minding my own business when I pull up to the garage I bring my van to. I’ve been at that garage a lot over the last several months. The guys and I over at Great Dane’s Dog Sanctuary needed a vehicle that could safely transport multiple dogs. So I’ve been working with Jude to outfit my van with built-in dog crates.

Most of our dogs come to us via delivery from other rescue organizations and shelters. But on occasion, I need to drive somewhere to pick some up. Usually, a roundup of pups on a shelter’s euthanasia list or some dogs misplaced because of natural disasters. In Texas, that normally means floods or hurricanes.

Since the last thing I want is to end up stranded by the side of the road with a van full of traumatized pups, I bring my van by to get the all clear before each trip. And that’s when things go from manageably bad to much worse.

I don’t see Jude in the office, so I walk around the garage bays. There’s music playing. Drift Away. And not the newer version by Uncle Kracker, but the original Dobie Gray version. There’s a car with the hood up—a ’65 Mustang Coupe. And there she is.

Buttercup.

And despite the nickname I gave her the first time I saw her, she doesn’t look like a princess. She’s wearing steel-toed work boots and a mechanic’s coveralls, zipper open over a grime-streaked tank top. Her corn-silk blond hair is in a braid that wraps around her head. She’s holding a torque wrench in her hand, and she’s singing along with Dobie Gray as she sways with her eyes closed. There’s a smear of motor oil on her cheek.

The fabric of her tank stretches tight as she raises one hand over her head to belt out the chorus.

And… I’m a goner.

Gone.

Lost.

Head over fucking heels.

This woman, whom I had every intention of never thinking about again, has become unforgettable.

Some nameless, gorgeous blonde chick at the festival I could have forgotten. Would have forgotten.

Saddle Creek is a tourist town, and people come in for those damn festivals all the time. By rights, I never should have seen Buttercup again.

But there she is, looking like a damn dream. A woman who works on cars, wears the proper foot protection, and belts out the lyrics of my favorite song?

You might as well stamp DOA on my forehead and ship my corpse home.

Yeah, that was like six months ago, and I swear things get worse every time I go. Last time I saw her, she was wearing an Eagles concert t-shirt. And not in the ironic way people wear thrift-store clothes. I’ve heard her sing their songs, too. So I’m a big dude who likes muscle cars and classic rock. I’m a cliché, whatever. It fits nicely with my pervy old-guy persona I’ve been developing.

Like I said, I’m completely fucked.

Which is why today, knowing I need to go to the garage and have the van checked out before going on a run, I asked Flynn to come with me. Does that make me a pussy? Maybe, but it’s always nice to have reinforcements.