She swung around slowly—slow enough that she heard Seth make a noise that sounded like snerk. Even a teenaged boy knew better than to call her Jennifer.
“Excuse me?” was the most polite thing Jenny could come up with.
Bobby had on a headset, and despite looking like the kind of guy who rarely got up before noon, he was as good-looking as ever. “As I’m sure you know, Jennifer, we’re doing the shoot this morning. We’re going to need you to move your car.”
It was awfully early to have her last nerve snap, but it did. “Why?”
Bobby gave her the kind of smile that made her want to punch him in the stomach. “We’re setting up a shot of Billy riding in, and we need the space.” Bobby’s voice was less complimentary now, more a direct order. “Move your car.”
Of all the arrogant...Jenny paused—a trick she’d learned long ago worked on children of all ages to command attention. She drew herself up to her full height of five foot five inches, but she was still a good eight inches shorter than Bobby. She hated craning her neck, but she didn’t have a stepstool handy.
“No. This is my spot. I always park here.” Part of her knew she was being a tad irrational—it’s not like moving the car was a huge deal—but she didn’t want Bobby Bolton to think he could steamroll her whenever he felt like it.
Too often, too many people thought they could flatten her. They thought she wouldn’t put up a fight because she was a nice girl or because she taught little kids or because she had nothing—especially that. Nothing but a parking spot.
Bobby’s smile disappeared and he suddenly looked tired. “I know this is your spot, but I’d think a grown woman could handle parking somewhere else for one day. Thanks so much. Vicky?” he said into his headset. “Can we get Jennifer some coffee? Thanks.” He turned his gaze back to her, and his fake-happy smile was back. “I know it’s early, but once you move your car and have your coffee, I’m sure you’ll feel better, Jennifer.”
Jenny bristled under his patronizing tone, but before she could tell him that she didn’t drink coffee, much less restate her position about not moving her darned car, a shadow loomed behind her, blocking out the spotlight.
A shiver raced up her arms and across her neck as a deep, powerful voice said, “Her name isn’t Jennifer.” As if to emphasize this point, a massive fist swung out from the shadows and hit Bobby in the arm so hard that he had to take a few steps back to keep his balance. “It’s Jenny. Stop being a jerk.”
Jenny swallowed as Billy Bolton brushed past her and stood next to his brother. She was not afraid of this man, she reminded herself. So what if he was a foot taller than she was, wearing really expensive-looking leather chaps over a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt that didn’t look like the kind that cost seven dollars at Walmart? So what if he had on sunglasses and the sun hadn’t even broken through the horizon? So what if he looked like some sort of bad-biker-boy fantasy come true?
He was on her territory, by God. She would not cower, and that was that.
So she squared her shoulders, put on her don’t-mess-with-me glare and stood her ground. Then she realized what Billy had said.
He knew her name.
Weird goose bumps spread from her neck down her back. She would have been willing to bet that he wouldn’t have been able to pick her out of a lineup, but here he was, punching Bobby because he’d called her the wrong name.
My school, my rez, she repeated to herself as she cleared her throat. “Right. Well, have fun making your little movie, gentlemen.” She turned to walk into the building at a slow, deliberate pace, but Bobby circled around.
“We haven’t solved our problem.”
“Problem?” Billy asked. Jenny felt his voice rumble through her. She remembered now that he’d invoked that same sort of physical response in her the other time they’d met, too.
“Jennif—Jenny’s car is in the shot.” Bobby quickly corrected himself before Billy took another swing at him. “We need to get you on the bike riding up to the school with the sunrise, and her car will be in the way. I’ve asked her to move it—for the day,” he added, giving her another sexy smile, “but because it’s early and she hasn’t had her coffee, she hasn’t yet seen the value of temporarily relocating her vehicle.”
What a load of hooey dressed up in double-talk. Did he think he could confuse her with a bunch of fancy language and the kind of smile that probably melted the average woman?
“Just because Josey gave you permission to film at this school does not mean I’m going to let you and your ‘crew’ disrupt my students’ educations,” she said through a forced smile.
Then something strange happened. Billy looked at her, leaned forward, took a deep breath—and appeared to be savoring it. “She doesn’t drink coffee,” he said as the woman Jenny had seen earlier walked up with a steaming mug of the stuff.
Okay, Billy Bolton was officially freaking her out. Jenny had been more or less invisible to the male race for—well, how old was Seth? Fourteen? Yes, fourteen years. No one wanted to mess with a single mother, and a mostly broke Indian one at that.
But Billy? He was not just paying attention to her name, or what she smelled like. He was paying attention to her. She had no idea if she should be flattered or terrified.
“You’re not going to move your car?” he asked.
“No.”
She couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, but she got the feeling he was giving her the once-over. Then, with a curt nod, he turned around, walked to the front bumper of her car and picked up the whole dang thing. With his bare hands. True, it was a crappy little compact car that was about twenty years old, but still—he picked it up as if it didn’t weigh much more than a laundry basket. If she wasn’t so mad right now, she’d be tempted to do something ridiculous, like swoon at the sight of all his muscles in action. He was like every bad-boy fantasy she’d ever had rolled into one body.
“Hey—hey!” Jenny yelled as he rolled her car about thirty feet away and dropped it in the grass with a thud. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?”
“Solving a problem.” Billy dusted his hands off on his chaps and turned to face her, as if he regularly moved vehicles with his bare hands. “You.”
That absolutely, totally did it. It was bad enough she had to take a constant stream of attitude from her son. She’d tried being nice and polite—like the good girl she was—but what had that gotten her? Nothing but grief.
“You listen to me, you—you—you.” Before she knew what she was doing, she’d reached out and shoved—actually shoved—Billy Bolton.
Not that he moved or anything. Pushing his chest was like pushing against a solid wall of stone. And all those stupid goose bumps set off again. She ignored them.
“I am not here for you or your brother or his film crew to treat like garbage. I am a teacher. This is my school. Got that?”
She thought she saw Billy’s mouth curve up into something that might have been a grin. Was he laughing at her?
She
