He’s standing so close…so close I can smell his engine and leather scent even though he’s not on his motorcycle or wearing his club jacket. There’s also a faint sweat odor—the kind that comes with a day of hard work. It should be off-putting.

But…it’s not. It’s just not.

My body reacts to his nearness, and my brain statics, not knowing what to do with him or his question. He looms, and I avert my eyes, not sure how to answer.

But even with my eyes pushed in a different direction, I can’t miss the lopsided grin that turns up his lips. “You telling me I missed it when you finally showed up at my trailer to submit?”

Okay, that cocky question unstatics my brain.

“No,” I answer, righteous indignation kicking in to defend myself. “I need—the medical trailer needs some important supplies. And Charlie was like, ‘Waylon has to approve it,’ even though I'm supposed to be the town nurse. So, I came to your trailer to get what I needed approved. That's all.”

He scans my face, and there’s a devilish glint in those crystal-blue eyes. “I'm sorry I wasn't there when you stopped by, angel. I would've made giving you what you need my highest priority if it had been me who answered the door instead of Cindy. Maybe I could’ve convinced you to give me a few things I need too.”

I narrow my eyes, disliking all the innuendo in his voice for more reasons than one. “I don’t think you need anything from me. Cindy? Is that the name of the woman who answered your door? She seemed very enthusiastic. Super willing to go above and beyond to give you anything you want.”

Waylon’s half-grin becomes a full-blown smile with all those perfect white teeth Lucinda didn’t know he had on display. “Yeah, she's a hell of a maid. That's why I always say it’s got to be her when the cleaning service comes through.”

The righteous indignation in my chest loses a bit of steam as I remember what Lucinda said last week about the maid service not coming until Saturday. Today is Saturday. “So, wait, you're trying to tell me that girl was your maid. And that's all?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.” Waylon crooks his head, still smiling, like I’ve just made his day. “Who did you think she was?”

“Not your maid.” I scoff and let him know, “I find that hard to believe—what kind of maid doesn’t wear anything but a pair of panties to work?”

“A Ruthless Reapers kind of maid.” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re living with Meemaw and damn near best friends with Lucinda, from what I hear. Neither of them told you about the maid service?”