CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Benedict

T he salesman returned to his small and too-hot office. "Mr. Bolton said you can have it for sixty-five hundred," he said, picking at his teeth with the toothpick he'd had in his mouth since we arrived at the dealership and were introduced to him. "Said we can take the cost out of the check you're gettin'," he added.

I turned to Charlie, who'd been my mouthpiece since our arrival. "You'll need a truck this winter," he said. "We get a lot of snow, Ben."

"We'd have our ride back to Plentywood as well," I agreed, turning back to Tweed. Tweed was the name the salesman gave us when he shook our hands earlier. As odd as the name was, Tweed fit him. "Is the truck good?" I asked the sales guy. "I don't know anything about trucks."

"We guarantee the truck for ninety days," he stated, giving me a thumbs-up and a goofy smirk.

I turned to face Charlie again. He winked and nodded slightly. "Okay," I said reluctantly. "I'll take the truck."

Charlie and I sat in the office for about two hours, the sales guy popping his head in every fifteen minutes to see if we were still there. Apparently, there was a lot of paperwork I'd need to sign to sell the Mercedes and then buy the used truck.

"Chevy is a good brand," Charlie soothed, sensing my apprehension. "And I can take care of anything that breaks. Promise."

I had to admit that I liked Charlie's take-charge demeanor. I was drawn to men that handled themselves confidently because I hated complicated decision-making. And truthfully, I had very little backbone when it came to disappointing people. Charlie was similar to Rocco, the only man I'd spent any serious amount of time with.

The problem with Rocco, however, was that he wasn't serious about our relationship, and he'd made that abundantly clear from the start. Was Charlie capable of a serious relationship? He seemed a bit carefree and had an easy-come, easy-go vibe about life. I'd had that type of man before and look where that got me.

There was no doubt that Charlie was interested in me. His behavior when I completed his physical at the clinic was the first indication he was into me. But then again, that was the wrong place to be acting the way he had. His attempt to spend time with me at Smitty's last week was interrupted by Hunt, so that had ended that discussion prematurely as well.

I still had a nagging feeling that something had happened between Hunt and him, but I couldn't figure out what that was. The term frenemy came to mind. Perhaps spending time with him this weekend would shed more light on who Charlie Brewster really was.

Our drive to Missoula earlier in the day went quicker than I'd imagined. We left Plentywood at five in the morning and made great time once we got to I-90, arriving in Missoula before two PM. Charlie drove my car, oohing and awing over the handling of the Mercedes, and flattering my choice of buying it. I didn't tell him that my father simply left it at the curb of my apartment two days before I left New York City.

I found Charlie to be an entertaining travel buddy as we made our way. He was polite, interesting, witty as fuck, and had the best laugh. His profile was amazing, and I found any excuse to look his way as he charmed me with stories of his childhood growing up in Plentywood. To say that Charlie was a charmer would be an understatement. I had a feeling he could convince a nun to give him a shot in bed.

I noticed his clothing for the ride to Missoula wasn't like the attire he normally wore. He had a pale blue button-down shirt, Ralph Lauren, if I wasn't mistaken. Dark denim jeans and Gucci loafers with a matching belt. He was put together for sure. His usual messy-haired, surfer-boy style was absent. His hair was gelled and combed to the side. His Wrangler jeans, country shirts, and cowboy boots were nowhere to be seen either. This was New York Charlie. And he looked killer.

I wondered if these were the types of clothes he wore when he escorted while living in New York. I also wondered if he'd been truthful when he'd admitted to being an escort. His forthright nature led me to believe that he actually may have been telling the truth. And, of course, what reason would you have to share that sort of detail with someone you barely knew?

In typical fashion, I kept my history to a minimum. "No," I'd lied. "I did not have anyone serious when I lived in New York. Yes, I'm fine being single. I'm not sure how long I'll be in Plentywood," I'd lied again.

He told me how he'd returned to Culbertson from New York instead of Plentywood because he needed distance from his childhood town. I didn't push as to why that was. He regaled me with how weird it was that he purchased a gas station and lived in an RV behind it. If he had an image to protect, he certainly never let on that he cared what people thought of him. I liked that about him.

Tweed handed me two envelopes. One held paperwork and the other held a large cashier's check. "All done, boys," he stated, eyeing both of us as we stood up. "You staying in town or heading back up to Canada?" he joked.

"Plentywood is still in the good ol' USA," Tweed, Charlie said, tipping a nonexistent hat toward the goofy salesman. "Nuttin' wrong with Canada, though," he added.

It was impossible not to notice the way Tweed studied us. His eyes went from me and then back to Charlie. I sensed he had questions about our relationship. "So, y'all staying in town, or heading back?" he asked again.

"We're staying overnight," I said, turning to Charlie for back-up.

"One room or two?" Tweed pushed.

Charlie stepped closer to the nosy salesman. "And why you askin', big guy? You wantin' to join us?"

I figured Tweed would shit his pants or throw a fist after Charlie's question. I was wrong by a long mile. "I'd have to tell the missus I was out with clients," he said, raising his eyebrows and grinning. "I do the fucking, though. No kissing either," he added.

Charlie put his hand on my lower back in a possessive way. "I'm cool with being fucked, cowboy, but I insist you kiss me first. With lots and lots of tongue."

I barely held a snort of laughter in after Charlie's words. He was absolutely incorrigible. Tweed turned more shades of red than I think a paint store had samples of. "Asshole," Tweed hissed.

Charlie led me through the open door, his hand still on my back, stopping in front of the stunned man. "I'm not the married one, asshole," Charlie snarled, glancing at the guy's crotch before returning his gaze. "And I want a meal, not a snack." At that, we walked out of the dealership, both of us laughing our asses off.

Charlie opened my door and waited for me to get in before he stepped around my new-to-me used truck, and hopped in the driver's seat, laughing hysterically. "Did you see his fucking face?" he asked.

I was laughing out loud as well. I couldn't remember being so nervous while still enjoying the fun of just letting loose. The situation was completely outrageous and I would never have done the same, but it was definitely funny. "You are bold," I stated. "I can't believe you said that."

Charlie's face turned serious. "Cheating asshole deserved it," he hissed, sneering in disgust. He turned to face me. "Was I too much? Did I embarrass you?"

"No! Of course not," I insisted. "Brave for sure."

"But you're okay with that behavior?" he asked.

He seemed concerned about how I felt. "I'm fine," I said. "You're fine," I added.

He slid his hand across the bench seat and squeezed mine. "Good," he said. "I don't want you to think I'm just some crude country boy, Ben."

Yep. He liked me.