Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 22937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
“You should rebook with a real fucking Uber,” I say. “I’m willing to take you home and that’s it. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll leave it.” She huffs. “Let me out of this car.”
“Gladly.” I pull over into the first open space I see.
Then I step out and walk to the back, opening the door.
Grabbing her things, she gets out and avoids looking directly at me like I’ve done something wrong.
I look her over—again and again—still stunned that she’s this fucking beautiful.
“Thank you so much for being such a gentleman, sir,” she says, her eyes on the buildings behind me.
“You’re very welcome.” I smile. “Thank you for saving me an unnecessary trip. I appreciate it.”
“Ugh. Really?” She shakes her head, looking like she’s waiting for me to apologize or re-offer her the expired deal.
“Make sure you’ve grabbed everything from my backseat.” I point to the left. “Then step onto the sidewalk over there.”
She rolls her eyes and steps back, but then she looks over her shoulder and her face pales to a ghostly white.
Gasping, she jumps back into my car, diving headfirst to the floorboard.
“I’ll take it, I’ll take it!” She screams. “Just take me home, please!”
I stare at her as she adjusts her position, as she exposes a small blue butterfly tattoo that’s inked between her thighs, right below where she’s wearing a pair of black lace panties.
Fuck…
I look to where she was glancing down the street and don’t see anyone, but I decide to be nice and renew my offer.
Just this once.
Shutting the back door, I slide behind the wheel and pull onto the road again.
I manage to drive two miles before I realize that this woman is still crouched on the floorboard, and she still hasn’t given me her address.
I’ll give her twenty more seconds.
SELF INCRIMINATION (N.)
MAKING STATEMENTS OR PRODUCING EVIDENCE WHICH TENDS TO PROVE THAT ONE IS GUILTY OF A CRIME.
SCARLETT
Ican’t believe I got into the wrong effin' car…
Tonight is the cherry on top of a years-long shitty sundae—the final garnish adorning a series of poor life decisions I just can’t melt away.
“Since I’m not a real Uber driver, I need you to come sit in the front seat with me,” Mr. Generous says out of nowhere.
“No, that’s okay.” I shake my head. “I’m fine riding down here.”
The car suddenly jolts to a stop, and my body flies to the other side of the floor.
“Front seat,” he demands. “Now.”
“Ugh.” I sit up. “Fine.”
I tuck my purse under my arm and crawl over his center console, settling into the passenger seat.
“Happy now, sir?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Buckle your seatbelt.”
My breath catches as he turns and narrows his eyes at me, as I finally take in a view of his face.
My lips part before I can stop them, and my heart stumbles over its own reckless tempo.
This man's face is the definition of a wet fantasy. A sculptor's ultimate dream.
With his short, jet-black hair that's perfectly coiffed, his chiseled jawline that’s begging me to touch it, and his deep emerald eyes that are probably seeing right through me, he’s making every nerve in my body run wild without even trying.
If I'd caught a longer glimpse of this man before this moment, I would've known he was someone whose world could never possibly collide with mine. That fate could never be so cruel and kind at the same time.
“Do I need to give you instructions on how to buckle your seatbelt?” He interrupts my thoughts. “I can, if you need them.”
I click the buckle.
“Thank you.” He drives forward. “Now, what’s your address?”
“I need your first and last name before I give you that,” I say to him. “We need to establish a level of trust in this relationship.”
“I’m only going to know you for thirty more minutes of my life—at most.” He runs through a yellow light. “We don’t have a relationship…”
“I’ll go first since you clearly have no idea how to make small talk.” I clear my throat. “My name is Olive, like the vegetable.”
“Olives are considered a fruit.”
“They’re also vegetables.” I refuse to believe he’s this difficult. “That’s why they’re always next to the pickles in the grocery store.”
“Pickles are also, technically, fruits.” His lips curve into a slow smile. “They grow from flowers and have seeds…just like olives.”
“Are you normally this antagonistic to everyone you meet?” I look at him. “Or did I burn you somehow?”
“You broke into my car and demanded that I drive you to lower Manhattan—which is far away from where I was originally heading.” He looks right back at me. “Surely you don’t think I should be ecstatic about that.”
He has a point. “You could at least be cordial with me for this ride, though. I gave you my real name.”
“The lanyard you took off says your name is Scarlett.” He serves me a smirk under a red light, and my cheeks heat.