I Ship It ( "The Rhythm of Life" Chapter 3 | Argument at the Depot Scene )

Margaret Hale was the last person John expected to see in the loading bay of Marlborough Shipping today. She followed Williams with her head down and her arms crossed, as if trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She couldn't be more obvious than if she'd walked in naked.

John shoved the thought away and hopped down from Wolf's rig. "She's good to go, Wolf."

The trucker nodded and John cut a direct path for Williams. When the dispatcher spotted him, he paused and waited as John walked up. Margaret continued her fierce examination of the concrete floor.

"Miss Hale," John said, trying to keep his voice polite. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to be here." her reply was curt and cutting.

John bit back a sarcastic reply. He didn't think he had the energy for any more of her bullshit after yesterday's class discussion. He grimaced. Calling their fights 'discussions' was complete hogwash. 'Bar fight' would be a better term, he thought, minus the alcohol and broken glass. His lips twitched. A bar fight with Margaret could be fun.

"Excuse me, Master, I've got the band to see to," Williams said quickly and scurried away.

"Master?" Margaret's head shot up. She didn't bother to mask the contempt on her face. "Your employees call you 'master?'"

"It's my handle," John crossed his arms. "All truck drivers have one."

"Interesting choice."

"You don't choose your handle," John growled, temper bristling. As tired as he was, she always yanked the worst—and the best—out of him. "It chooses you."

"I suppose someone like you would be branded a master."

"Someone like me?" John's frown deepened and he stepped closer. "You mean a privileged rich man raised in the south?"

"You said it," she said, and took a step to the side. "Not me."

"Except you've got it all wrong."

"Really? Do tell me how I'm wrong—again."

His temper bubbled to the surface, and the temptation to return her verbal jab got the best of him, "My dad may have had money but he stole it from other people. I'm just the trailer trash with a suit and a haircut who paid them back."

Margaret tried to interrupt but John stepped forward again. Something always shifted in Margaret's posture whenever he got close to her, and he couldn't quite explain it. It wasn't fear or revulsion or intimidation. Not quite a dance, and not quite chase, but whatever it was, he always wanted more of it.

"The only reason I've got any money is because I bust my ass to earn it."

"Shall I get you a gold star for that? Put it on your chart, yeah?"

John rolled his eyes, "Why are you here, Miss Hale?"

"That's none of your business."

"This is literally my business," John retorted. "It's also a private business, so either tell me what you want from me or get the hell out."

"What could I possibly want from you? You're an arrogant, conceited, unfeeling—"

John stepped closer again, cutting her off, "Think what you like about me, but don't come here and waste my time with name calling. Now what do you want with me?"

"I don't want anything from you," She snipped, her cheeks flaming.

"Are you sure?"

The tension between them almost crackled with energy and John found himself smiling as he stepped forward one more time, erasing the distance between them. Margaret Hale was one fiery spunky woman who met him toe to toe, said exactly what she thought, learned from her mistakes, and kept on fighting. She might be a royal pain in the ass, but she was also damn fun to wrangle with. John's grin widened.

"Why the bloody hell are you smiling?" She demanded.

"You're sexy as hell when you're mad."

John blinked as she gasped, her mouth falling open. Oh shit.

He didn't know where that had come from, but Margaret tangled up his thoughts in more ways than he liked to admit.

"What did you say?"

He thought she might slap him. He wouldn't stop her and he sure as hell wouldn't blame her if she did.

"Why would you say that, John?" She said, her voice sinking to a whisper.

He was trying to figure that out himself but his thoughts snapped in a different direction when she said his name. He wasn't sure she'd ever called him 'John' before—and he liked it.

He liked her. A lot.

He didn't see that coming.

"Why did you say that?" She demanded again.

John had already stuck his foot in his mouth so he figured he might as well finish the job properly. He pulled off his hat, crossed his arms, and bent down until his face was inches from hers. "Because it's true."

Margaret's eyes widened with surprise. But John was far more surprised when she grabbed his shirt, yanked him forward the last few inches separating them, and kissed him.

It was fumbling and awkward and John couldn't tell what else because his whole mind downshifted out of rational reasoning leaving him drowning in just her. John didn't have too much practice kissing anyone but kissing Margaret was pretty damn easy. And it went straight to his head like a shot of good Kentucky whiskey.

Make that several shots.

When the kiss ended just as abruptly as it began, John knew he should say something—anything, really— but he couldn't actually form a complete sentence.

"Bloody hell." Margaret turned and fled towards the nearest door.

"Wait," he tried again to make his mouth and his brain work at the same time, without much success. She was so soft—soft, tiny, infuriating. "Maggie—"

John found his feet worked just fine and jogged after her. He caught her hand just as she reached the office, where Bess Higgins was refiling a huge stack of reports. Bess flicked her gaze between Margaret and John and then landed on their linked hands.

"Holy shit." She let out stifled laugh. "That didn't take long."

Margaret snatched her hand away, and John glowered at Bess.

"Out," he barked. "Now."

Bess disappeared, still laughing.

John closed the door firmly behind her.

"Mr Thornton, I—"

"John," he grumbled, pitching his hat on his desk. He raked both hands through his hair. "We need to talk."

"We don't talk, we fight."

"You just kissed me," John reminded her as he leaned back against his desk and folded his arms. "We need to talk."

"I didn't plan to—to do that," Margaret wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "It's not like I'm going to do it again."

"Why not?"

She gaped at him, "Are you serious?"

"You started this, and I'm sure as hell going to finish it."

"Finish it, how, exactly?"

"I like you," John rubbed the back of his head. "A lot."

"You've got a rotten way of showing it," she grumbled. "And anyway, I don't like you at all."

"Do you always kiss men you don't like?"

"I don't kiss anyone," she retorted her face turning red when she realized her words didn't quite match her current behavior. "Except you—it's not what—" Margaret looked stunned. "I don't know if you've noticed but we don't exactly get on."

"We got it on just fine a minute ago."

"That was not—no—you were an accident."

"That was no accident," John pushed himself to his feet.

"Don't tell me what it was, John Thornton," Margaret snapped. "One kiss doesn't entitle you to—"

"It was hot as hell."

John swore under his breath as the blood drained from Margaret's face. His mouth wasn't doing him any favors today.

"I—sorry, you must be terribly busy." Margaret cast about, twisting her hands in her skirt. "I should go."

"Wait," John pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed one of his business cards. He grabbed a marker from his desk, yanked the cap off with his teeth, scribbling on the back. "I have your cell number," he said, holding out the card. "That's mine. Call me and we can try this whole thing again."

"What thing?" She glanced at the card. "We aren't a thing."

"We could be," John said. "If you want."

"No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm eighteen and you're—well, you're what?—ten years older than me?"

"Eight," he grumbled.

It could be a little awkward but so far it was working for him. If they waited two or three more years no one would even notice, and he didn't feel like waiting. Not after that kiss.

"Look," Margaret hesitated. "You don't have to be nice about this. I'm sorry I kissed you—"

"I'm not being nice." John insisted. "I'd just like to kiss you again."

Margaret flinched away, blushing.

"But I'll wait."

"You—" Margaret rubbed her face with her hand. "You can't be serious?"

"I don't say things I don't mean," he grinned, "And I don't do things I don't want to do."

"What would people say?"

"I don't give a damn what they say."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, the tension building until John thought his mouth might run away from him again.

Margaret finally sighed, tugged the card from his hand, and read the back. "You have terrible handwriting." She slid the card into her pocket, deliberately not looking at him. "I really do need to go."

"I'll drive you home."

"No," Margaret sounded a bit dazed. "I need to think."

John nodded and she hurried out. He stepped to the window and watched her go, his mind playing and replaying that awkward, messy, unexpected kiss. He shook himself, knowing he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn't help it. He figured it would take a hell of a lot of time and effort before he could get a chance to kiss Margaret properly, but he didn't mind. He liked a challenge. Knowing Margaret, he'd probably have to marry her before—

John froze. The realization hit him like a freight train loaded down with lead bricks and he leaned heavily against the wall, raking both hands through his hair. He didn't just want to kiss that woman. He wanted it all—every last perfect bit of her—for the rest of his life.

"Holy shit," He muttered, staring at his reflection in the glass. "You've lost your damn mind, John Thornton."

He was going to marry Margaret Hale if it was the last thing he did on planet earth.

And his mother was going to be pissed.