Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 44622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
A horn honks behind me before I'm even five feet down the road.
"Oh, thank you, Baby Jesus," I whisper, spinning around to find a truck slowing to a stop behind my car. The relief bubbling through me sinks like a freaking rock when I catch sight of the driver.
Ridley. Of course it's Ridley.
Why couldn't it be someone normal? Like a serial killer? I'd rather take my chances with one of them than with him right now. At least they'd put me out of my misery. The torture never ends with him.
He climbs from the truck, a heart-stopping dichotomy of wild ruggedness and smooth businessman. His hair is a mess. His suit is impeccable, stretched over his muscular frame like silk. And that isn't my womb clenching. I swear it isn't.
"What happened, Dimples?" he asks, sauntering toward me.
"Flat tire," I respond dully.
"You got a spare?"
"Nope."
His lips pull down into a disapproving frown. "What the fuck? Your car didn't come with a spare?"
"It did," I mutter. "I just forgot to replace it."
"Dimples." Disapproval threads every damn syllable of my nickname.
"I've been busy," I protest. It's not a lie. Between graduation, passing the bar, and looking for a job, replacing the spare tire was low on my list of priorities. Real low.
Ridley crosses over and then kneels beside the tire to take a look at it. "Jesus, baby. What the fuck did you hit? Every curb in Santa Maria?"
"I don't know. It made a weird sound and then went flat."
"There are at least five—make that six—nails stuck in this thing, Paisley." He cuts his eyes in my direction. "And you didn't see what you ran over?"
"I already told you I didn't," I grumble, crossing my arms defensively. "I was trying to avoid a turtle."
That's a lie. I was in my own world, thinking about him. But not even Batman could beat that truth out of me. No freaking way.
"A turtle?" His lips curve into an amused smirk as he rises gracefully. "Well, come on, Mother Teresa. Let's get you home. I'll come back for your car."
I flick my gaze toward his truck. "Can't I just borrow your phone to call Oliver? He can come and get me."
"No. He's busy."
"Doing what?"
"Stuff."
I narrow my eyes at him, not buying his bullshit for a minute. "You're lying. I want to call Oliver."
"Too bad. My phone is dead."
"Let me see it."
"Why?"
"To see if you're lying."
"I forgot it back at the vineyard."
"Oh my god." I gape at him, caught in that void between frustration and shock. You know, the one where you're so mad you want to laugh because if you don't, you might actually strangle someone? Yeah, that's the one. "You are such a liar. How do you know your phone is dead if it's back at the vineyard? And who even goes anywhere without a phone anyway?"
He shrugs like the accusation doesn't bother him at all. "It was dead when I left it there," he lies with a straight face. "And I go places without one. Now, get in the truck."
"No, thanks. I'd rather walk." To prove the point, I spin on my heel, adjusting the strap of my purse across my shoulder. There's no way in hell I'm getting in that truck with him. It probably smells like him, all woodsy and sexy and infuriatingly hot.
I'd rather die walking in these heels, thank you very much.
I hear him following me, but don't bother turning around. My mistake. My huge mistake. Between one step and the next, my feet leave the ground. The world spins upside down. And I'm over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Ridley, you asshole!" I shriek, using my purse as a weapon against his back. Maybe I hit his fine ass a few times, too. I'll never tell. "Put me down right now, or I swear to God, everyone in the valley is going to hear me screaming."
"Yeah?" he grunts, already striding back toward his truck like carrying me isn't a problem at all. "They going to hear you screaming my name, Dimples? Because I can live with that."
"Not if I kill you first." I try to wrap the strap of my purse around his throat, but it's hard to do when it's still looped over my shoulder. All I manage to do is smack him in the head with it. The purse makes a satisfying thwomp sound when it thuds against his stupid skull.
His amused laughter is less satisfying.
His hand comes down on my ass in a hard smack. "Behave before I drop you. If I hurt you, I'm going to be pissed about it."
"Then put me down." I kick my feet like a toddler having a tantrum. That's basically what I feel like right now. I smack him with my purse again for the indignity.
"Goddammit. Stop hitting me," he growls, his hand planted against my ass.