Dirty Together(The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #3)(3)

By: Meghan March



I lick my lips, rough from the heat of my car blasting on them during the blur of a drive from Nashville. I turned my radio up nearly as loud as it would go and started belting out the lyrics to every country oldie I could find. Anything to distract me from thoughts of Creighton, and how he might have reacted when he found the note. The voice in my head that sounds like Mama says he’s just going to write me off this time.

“Holly?” Logan drags me back to the present.

“Sorry. I, um, my car won’t start. I was getting gas, and then I got back in and turned the key, and just nothing. Well, a click, but then nothing.” I snap my mouth shut when he grins, because I think he’s laughing at the fact that I’m babbling like an idiot.

“A click. Bad starter then, probably.” He cranes his head toward the overhead doors. Trying to see my car, maybe? “What kind of hot ride you got these days? I could see you in a Lexus. You always were classier than the other girls around here.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Me? Classy?”

I wore hand-me-downs from the ladies at church who had daughters a few years older than me until I was sixteen and moved up to shopping at the ultra-discount stores. Maybe he’s referring to the fact that I kept my boobs and butt covered, unlike some of the girls who scored that ride in his Firebird.

What’s he going to think when he gets a look at my Pontiac? I’m going to blow his Lexus theory right out of the water. I’m still the same Holly I was before; the fringe and glitter of Nashville haven’t changed me yet. Nor have the couple of weeks of being tied to Creighton’s billions.

Logan’s eyes fix on mine again. “Yeah, you. You’ve always been a class act. Although these days, I’m probably wrong about the Lexus. I bet you’re rollin’ in a Bentley.” His reference to Creighton’s money is impossible to miss, as is the slow, measuring look he gives me. “Yeah, I could see a Bentley suiting you just fine.”

I’m not sure why he’s so impressed. I’m wearing washed-out skinny jeans, a heather-blue thigh-length sweatshirt, a short black leather jacket, cowboy boots, and my trucker hat. Not exactly runway couture here.

“No Bentley. No Lexus.” Although Creighton has a chauffeur-driven Bentley, it’s not mine. So I might as well burst Logan’s bubble quickly.

He shrugs. “All-righty then. Let’s go see what we’re working with.”

I follow him out, almost slamming into his back when he stops short in front of the Pontiac.

“Please, woman, tell me that ain’t your ride.”

I pull my shoulders back and brazen it out. “Sorry it’s not up to your standards.”

He jerks his head to the side to get a look at me. “It ain’t up to your standards—that’s the problem.”

I shrug. “The high life isn’t always as glamorous as you’d think.”

He mutters something under his breath, and I don’t catch all of it. What I do catch sounds like sorry excuse for a husband.

“Keys?” He holds out a hand, and I drop them into it.

He has to adjust the seat way back before he can squeeze into the car. When he slides the key in the ignition and turns it, there’s nothing. Not even a click or a clunk.

“Um, there was a clunk too. After the click.”

“Yep. Starter or the solenoid’s shot. I can order one, but I won’t be able to get the part until Monday at the earliest. Maybe Tuesday.”

Considering it was going on five o’clock on Saturday, I wasn’t surprised by this.

“Okay. I really appreciate it.”

He climbs back out of the car. “Happy to help out the hometown girl who made good. I’ll get Johnny from the gas station to help me push it into the garage.”

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