Conflict of Interest (The Walker Five Book 1) Read online

She was unzipping her jacket when a horn wailed down the road.

  Elle pulled back sharply with a gasp, whipping her head toward the sound.

  Oh God, did someone see them?

  Two cars faded into the distance. They must’ve been honking at each other.

  Horror dawned; her eyes widened.

  Dillon was breathing heavy, his look fierce with desire. He’d calmed slightly, gauging her reaction. His lips were wet from their kissing, his hand had gone back down to her leg.

  He wasn’t just a former client. He was that man she swore she’d never get involved with. Because no matter how sweet and caring he was, if he had a drinking problem, she couldn’t involve her heart.

  “I can’t— That was wrong. I’ve got to go.”

  “Elle, wait.”

  She grabbed her purse and hopped out of the pickup.

  He waited for her at the box of the pickup by the time she made it around.

  “Elle.”

  She stepped around him. “No. I’m sorry. I was way out of line.”

  “We did nothing wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, Dillon.” He followed her all the way to her car door.

  Thank heaven for car remotes, because fumbling with a key would be icing on her humiliation cake.

  She sat down in the driver’s seat, but she couldn’t shut the door. Dillon held it open.

  “Can we talk?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. That can never happen again.”

  “I’m still going to call and make sure you’re doing okay.”

  Oh crap, he had her number. She was going to tell him not to, but like before, she couldn’t bring herself to say no. She only gave him a sad smile.

  He shut the door and stepped back, a grim expression lined his face.

  She drove away. He watched her, his tall form fading in the taillights.

  His kiss lingered on her lips, her breast ached to be touched by him again.

  Stop. Just stop. He was off limits, and that’s the way it had to stay.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday night had been hell. Monday morning had been a headache-filled form of torture. Even Dillon admitted to himself he’d had a few too many drinks after the way the night ended with Elle.

  By Monday afternoon, after hours in the field, he’d decided it hadn’t been a failure. He had pushed her past her boundaries with him, but maybe she’d see there was so much potential between them. He couldn’t be the only one to feel the high level of attraction between them.

  Tuesday morning and he was fresh as a daisy, having fallen into an exhausted sleep the night before.

  His feeling was figurative only. The rains in the dark hours of morning had made for an interesting adventure when Brock had called him. Cash needed help getting a calf out of a mud pit. Poor thing had fallen and gotten trampled by the other cows, too weak to get out of the muck.

  Back at his place, he couldn’t enter the house until he cleaned himself up. Muddy boots were the first to go before he stripped entirely—a huge benefit to living rurally. He dumped his dirty laundry in the washer.

  There’d be mud chunks in the wash for at least three loads.

  Showered and in fresh clothes, he watched the clock. Elle got done with work at five, give or take a few minutes. He’d call her at a quarter after.

  Tapping his fingers against the counter, he stared out the kitchen window at his shop. The vandalized tractor was inside. Brock had rattle-canned over the worst of it, finding the closest red to match. The paint job was garish, but better than yellow scribbles all over.

  The shop was kept locked twenty-four/seven. If the asshole who was messing with them broke in, at least there was a chance he’d leave evidence.

  Dillon checked his phone. Time to call. He could wait until the weekend, but he didn’t want her thinking he’d moved on.

  It rang. And rang.

  Maybe she wasn’t out of work yet.

  Rang some more.

  Maybe she’d moved on.

  “Hello.” Her tone wasn’t that of the thrilled girl who’d finally gotten called by the man of her dreams.

  “Hey, Elle.” Words left him, his breath hitched. Good grief, he hadn’t batted an eye when he’d asked a girl out for the first time before. “I was…checking in on you.”

  “I’m doing fine.” She spoke cautiously.

  “Good. How ’bout I take you out for dinner? Or I could bring something over.”

  She didn’t respond immediately. “Dillon, I can’t see you.”

  “Because it wouldn’t be appropriate.” His tone was flat.

  “Yes. What happened,” her voice dropped low, “Sunday night can’t happen again.”

  “I’m not your client anymore.”

  “But you were.”

  “And what, that’s it? We’re done. Not a chance?”

  “It’s not just that—” When she cut off, he waited for the reason, but nothing. “I can’t see you anymore, Dillon. Not on a personal or professional level. I’m sorry, good-bye.”

  He stared at his phone after she disconnected. That was it? Done.

  He tossed it on the counter and slapped his hands on the countertop. Glaring out the window, he cursed himself for the hundredth time for making that damn appointment, for letting his family’s insinuations get to him.

  And all the questions. What’s with you and Cash? What happened over there? Did you kill anyone?

  They all watched too much TV.

  He’d let his guilt over leaving home as fast as he could and coming home to find out his dad was dying persuade him to seek counseling.

  He slammed his fists down. There was nothing wrong with him. The shit between him and Cash was Cash’s issue. If his cousin could live with what his irresponsibility cost him, so be it.

  But the shadow had been cast on him, too, and it’d cost him Elle. The only woman in a long time who’d been more than a few hours of fun.

  The last thing he wanted to do was close himself in the shop alone and angry at himself and his dad. Then he’d feel like utter shit because he was angry at a dead man.

  The clouds chose that moment to dump more rain because the weather couldn’t decide what to do this time of year. He couldn’t drag out the tractor and get into the fields.

  His phone pinged with a text from Brock.

  Rain day, bitch. The Place.

  The Place was actually Barley ‘n’ Hops, but it’s “the place” they always went. Staring at the invite, he realized he hadn’t eaten lunch yet.

  He punched in his reply. Beat you there, bro.

  Chapter Eight

  Elle adjusted the box as she walked into her dad’s room. “I brought more of your stuff from home, some more clothes.”

  Her dad offered a smile. “Great, Elle, but I’m more glad to see you.”

  She set about unpacking and filling his dresser and tiny closet. Tonight, she was actually grateful to hang out with her dad. After the phone call from Dillon, her house had seemed an echoing cavern.

  Dillon.

  She sighed and concentrated on putting socks away. Her head knew she made the right decision, but her heart screamed and rallied against it. If he hadn’t walked into her office, she would’ve been jumping up and down at her good fortune.

  Aside from his hard-working background and business ownership, he was so good-looking. His teasing eyes had filled with concern—for her. How strong he felt when he wrapped his arms around her. How safe she’d felt.

  Her dad grumbled behind her. “It’s raining out. You don’t have to sit here with an old man and drive home in it.”

  “It might clear up.”

  “If it wasn’t for that damn chemo, my bones wouldn’t be so brittle. I wouldn’t be here where you’d have to be out in the elements.”

  If wasn’t for your damn drinking, you might not have developed leukemia and needed chemo.

  He started on his normal rant when he found himself in an embarrassing situation. His daughter caring fo
r him like he was ninety instead of sixty had him blaming the world, everyone but himself. As always.

  She’d give him this time and stay quiet. As always.

  A nursing home was a hard transition for anyone, and he was younger than 95 percent of the residents.

  Shoving his shirts into the drawer, she uttered noncommittal answers. It was this or go home. She’d stay long enough to watch the ten o’clock news before heading out.

  ***

  Dillon glared at Cash while he flirted and played pool with a couple of girls they’d gone to school with. One was married, but she didn’t act like it—not around his cousin. The other girl pressed up against Cash every chance she got.

  “Can I grab you another?” said the perky server beside Dillon.

  He’d met her before, the few times he’d been here during the winter. She always let him know she had no plans after closing time. He’d never taken her up on it; if things turned south between them, he didn’t want to have to quit coming to The Place.

  “I’ll take another,” he told her.

  Laughter caught his attention, bringing his incensed gaze back to his cousin.

  She glanced at the pool table and misinterpreted his irritation as being toward Cash getting all the attention. “I don’t have any plans once my shift is done.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” His kept his words pleasant, but uninterested.

  “Stick around. You won’t regret it,” she purred.

  Dillon stared at her ass swaying across the bar, not moved in the slightest. Regret. He had plenty of it and doubted the server would be as regret-free as she claimed. All the room in his mind was being taken up by his asshole, irresponsible cousin and a pretty little counselor who’d ditched him.

  He finished his beer and his server delivered another with a flirty smile.

  Taking a long swig, he relished the feeling of the first pull, when the beer was still ice cold with all its kick. He joked he drank so fast because he hated flat, warm beer.

  “Hey, Dill,” Cash called, his arm draped around the single chick as they walked toward the door. “I’m taking off.”

  Dillon held his arms out like, what the fuck? Brock had taken off early. Travis had left with his girlfriend and Aaron had stayed home. Probably counting seeds. He got all wound up around planting season.

  Cash shrugged and continued out the door.

  Irresponsible prick.

  He pulled out his phone to call Aaron to drive his ass to town to pick him up. The phone clattered to the table. Slippery little bugger. Some of the numbers were fuzzy. Naw. It wasn’t the phone. It was him. Finally, he dialed Aaron.

  It rang and rang.

  Phone calls weren’t his thing today. Looked like he was sleeping one off in his truck.

  Not the first time.

  Making a motion for anther beer, he figured he might as well have another if he wasn’t going anywhere.

  ***

  Elle peered through her wipers. Rain came down hard and she was angry with herself. She’d fallen asleep watching the news and her dad thought he was doing her a favor letting her sleep.

  She would’ve missed the nasty weather if she’d left on time. Now it was after one in the morning and she still had her work clothes and lunch to ready for work, then try to grab a few more hours so she wasn’t a mess tomorrow.

  Sitting forward, she peered out the car window. At least the rain would help wash the dirt and sand off the roads leftover from winter. The steady rain they’d gotten all day certainly helped, but this downpour would flush everything clean.

  A familiar pickup caught her eye. It was sitting in the otherwise empty parking lot of Barley ‘n’ Hops.

  Jealously flared when the question of who Dillon went home with ran through her mind. No matter. He wasn’t her business, literally or figuratively, and she’d expressly told him so. And he’d apparently listened and found someone else immediately. At a bar.

  Still, it stung being reminded how forgettable she was.

  She spared one last look as she drove past. Startled, she slowed down.

  A streetlight highlighted a form slumped in the passenger seat. She pulled into the lot and parked next to the pickup. To make sure he was all right, she told herself.

  Wishing she kept an umbrella in her car, she climbed out and went to the window his head leaned against. She rapped on it.

  He didn’t move.

  She knocked harder. Her hair was saturated with rain, streams ran down her face, and she wondered why the hell she was going through the effort.

  To make sure he was okay, she reminded herself.

  He shifted, but remained sleeping. Or passed out.

  She was getting downright soggy through and through. Picking the point next to his ear, she tapped hard against the glass.

  He jerked his head up and squinted out the window. His arm shifted like he reached for a sidearm he wasn’t wearing. A very telling reaction.

  She moved out of the way when he opened the door.

  “Elle?” Alcohol permeated the cab and his breath.

  “I stopped to see if you were all right.”

  Bleary eyed, he scanned the downpour and empty streets. “Just sleeping one off cuz Cash left me hanging.”

  “It’s raining.” Would the nice and dry farm boy take the hint?

  He gave her a lazy smile, still extremely good-looking in a sloppy, intoxicated way. “It’s not in my truck if you want to hop in.”

  She ignored the invitation. “Do you need me to drive you home, Dillon?”

  He craned his neck to look around her. “That little puddle jumper would get eaten alive on the roads out to my place.” His eyes swept her body and unwelcome heat smoldered in unwanted places. “You’re getting wet, Elle.”

  She cut off the direction he tried taking the conversation. “I’d better get home. Take care of yourself, Dillon.”

  He slumped back in his chair. So unfair how good he looked in jeans and a button-up with dressier cowboy boots than he normally wore. But that way lay heartbreak.

  “’Night, Elle.” He popped his head up. “Thanks for stopping to check on me.”

  The sincerity in his voice stopped her from leaving. Not just sincerity, but…sadness? Like her leaving him in the rain was expected behavior. “Come on, Dillon. You can sleep it off on my couch.”

  Those blue eyes lit with surprise. “It’d probably be warmer, huh?”

  She nodded and stepped back when he climbed out. He swung the door shut and swayed on his feet. If he went down, he’d take both of them because there was no way she could catch him.

  He folded his body into her car while she went around to her side.

  Dillon stayed quiet for a few blocks. It was hard for him to hold his head up, but she refrained from asking him how much he’d had to drink. Answer: more than enough.

  He wiped rain drops off his face. “I should’ve stayed home. I hate going to the bar. Too many people, too many questions.”

  Too many questions? “Why were you out tonight?”

  “Rain day. Originally, I was hoping to take a pretty lady out for dinner, but she blew me off.”

  She stayed quiet and hoped he’d keep going so she didn’t have to explain herself any further.

  “The guys wanted to go out and I hadn’t eaten yet.” He gave a disgusted snort. “Then Cash left me for a piece of —I figured I might as well stay indoors before I had to catch some shut eye in my truck.”

  “It’s not my fault, or Cash’s, that you drank too much.”

  He swung his gaze toward her. “Didn’t say that. I’m allowed to go out and have fun.”

  She pulled into her driveway and waited for the garage door to open. Now wasn’t the time to insist that yeah, he did. He’d likely not remember any of it, and it wasn’t her battle, not this time. Elle wasn’t in the mood for dude repair. It didn’t work on her dad, and she sure as hell wouldn’t do it for a personal relationship.

  After the garage door shut the
m in, it dawned on her that she had Dillon Walker in her home. Probably not the best decision she could’ve made, but leaving him in his truck in the storm would’ve kept her up all night.

  “I’ll show you where the couch is and get you some blankets.”

  “Elle…”

  He sounded like he was going to make more excuses, beg her forgiveness, whatever. She’d heard it all before from her dad. “Dillon, I’m soaked, cold, and tired. I have to get up in a few hours for work. Let’s just get inside.”

  He stared at her with glassy eyes before he nodded and got out, waiting for her to unlock the door into her house.

  Dumping her stuff on the counter, she slid off her shoes and coat. He did the same, his movements jerky, unrefined, not how she was used to seeing him. Her tall, swaggering farm boy wasn’t this man she brought home.

  “You can have my dad’s room. The bed will fit you better than the couch.”

  He had one hip propped against the counter, shoulders drooped, assessing her. It was her hold-everything-counter since it was right next to the door from the garage and too far away from anything in the kitchen to be useful.

  Instead of waiting for him to say something and getting dragged into another conversation best left to a different counselor, she spoke first. “The door’s open; it’s the first room on the left. You can let yourself out tomorrow when you wake up, just flip the lock on the door knob when you go. Don’t worry about the deadbolt.” No clue how he’d get back to his truck, but again, not her issue.

  He kicked off the counter and used a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Why do I feel like my parents just busted me and my cousins for having a bonfire in the south pasture while they were out of town?”

  She was tired, chilled to the bone from rescuing him, so her speech lost its filter. “Why do I feel like I traded one drunk for another?” Confusion drew his brows low, but she’d had enough. “Good night, Dillon.”

  Storming to her room, she shut the door and leaned against it. Within a minute, she heard his soft footsteps enter her dad’s room.

  Why had he made his appointment with her? Why did he have to be so damn sexy? She couldn’t let one handsome war vet farmer derail her plans, couldn’t waste her career getting involved with him.