Page 53 of Hearts Don't Lie
“You cannot do this, Bro,” Arlo said while securing his seat belt, clearly frustrated. “It’s just not done.”
“Hello to you too.”
Arlo turned to him; his mouth set in a firm line. “Hello. You’re crazy.”
“Find a way,” he said, demanding.
“What the fuck? You do realize that you’re being fined out the ass?”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Not even close to how leaving here would.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Hardin merged onto the interstate. “I’m going to tell you a story,” he said calmly. “You are not to share it with anyone outside of the owners. Neither are they. Please don’t interrupt me.” He gave Arlo a hard stare, waiting for confirmation.
Arlo nodded, then asked, “Are you sick?”
“Nope.”
“Dying?”
“Nope. Just fucking listen and keep your mouth shut.”
Arlo seemed surprised but just nodded again. Hardin rarely spoke with so much heat, and when he did, there was a good reason.
Hardin left his stunned friend and determined agent at the inn. Nothing like dumping everything but the kitchen sink in Arlo’s lap. The Spaniard was entering into the toughest negotiations he’d ever faced with a warning from Hardin not to disappoint. But that was why Hardin paid Arlo the big bucks. He prayed that the club’s owners, known for being staunch family men, would soften their relentless business acumen when they became privy to what was at stake. It could be a win-win or an epic disaster.
Stowe was sitting next to Mac as she worked at her desk when Hardin entered Intrepid. He looked expectantly at him.
“Morning,” he said to both, grinning, his gaze bouncing between them, his heart full. His son looked relaxed and happy. Mac just looked fresh and delicious. He ached to kiss her, but it wasn’t wise; his relationship with Stowe was tenuous.
“Ready?” Hardin asked him, again overcome with wonder when seeing himself mirrored in the eleven-year-old’s eyes.
“Yep.”
“You two have a good time,” she said, ruffling their son’s hair, her eyes and smile lighting on Stowe and then Hardin. “Go easy on Hardin, okay? He’s a rookie.”
Their son’s laughter sounded like music to Hardin, and he slid the sunglasses off the ball cap he wore and over his eyes.
Hardin and Stowe drove to the Wainsoms to pick up Mike and Beckett. Stowe climbed into the back seat to be with his best friend while Hardin exited to help Mike load the equipment and food.
“Hey, Hardin.” Cori’s husband extended a meaty hand. “Mike. Nice to meet you. Don’t you like how our minis leave all the packing to us?” He flashed a smile and nodded to the boys as he said it. Hardin noted Beckett was a diminutive version of his blond father, who looked like he could bench-press a small horse. “They can pack in for the return, maybe with some stinky fish if we’re so lucky. Stowe said this is a first time out for you.”
“Yeah.”
“I brought the extra rod and reel for you. You got your license and a rod stamp?”
“I did.” Feeling encouraged by the way everything was going, Hardin had purchased the annual nonresident instead of the five-day.
“Just give it to me when we get there and I’ll get you all set up.” Mike’s eyes lighted on Hardin’s boonie. “I see you have a new hat.”
“Stowe suggested it.” Hardin touched the colorful hat and grinned. “I think he thought I might not wear it.”
Mike nodded. “I see your son’s wearing the same one.”
