Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27551 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
He scrubs a calloused mechanic's hand through his thick chestnut hair, making it stand on end above his high forehead. "You're really something, you know that?" The words roll out in that honey-gravel drawl that makes my toes curl against the thousand-thread-count sheets and sends a shiver racing down my spine like a drop of ice water.
“Something in a good way?” My stomach knots itself into a pretzel as I brace for rejection. But he surprises me.
“In the best way.” Those work-roughened fingers reach for mine, his grip tight enough to anchor a ship in a hurricane, grounding me when I feel like I might float away. "Doesn't matter if your family owns half the state," he says, voice low and raw as an open wound. "I'm not letting you go. You’re mine."
He says it like it's carved in stone. Like he's already mapping battle plans against whatever army, whether political, social, or familial, that might try to come between us.
For a second, I can’t breathe. No one’s ever chosen me before—just my last name, my pedigree, my ability to smile for the cameras and behave at dinner.
Seth looks at me and sees the real me, and he’s still all in anyway. Heck yes. My luck definitely has taken a turn for the better.
CHAPTER 7
SETH
I’m three hours late for work, and not a single one of these guys has the balls to call me out on it.
Usually, I’m in before sunrise, mainlining espresso, barking orders, and running the whole damn place while the rest of the city’s still drooling into their pillows. Today? I stroll in at nine-thirty-two, sunglasses on, shirt half-untucked, and this ridiculous, can’t-wipe-it-off grin spread across my face. I know they all see it. Even Tyler, who can barely remember his own name before noon, glances up from where he’s hunched over the Ferrari’s fender. His eyebrows shoot up so high I half expect them to launch right off his face.
“Rough night, boss?” Jim O’Connor calls from under the hood of the Ferrari, his voice full of gravel and way too much amusement. He doesn’t even bother pretending to work. The rest of the crew exchange looks, grins threatening to split their faces. I must look like I just crawled out of a damn good, possibly illegal, time.
“Best night of my goddamn life,” I shoot back, which only makes them more convinced. Nobody says a word about my being three hours late, but the whole shop vibrates with tension—I can feel it in my teeth.
I slide through the locker room, rinse off the top layer of sweat, and dig out the least-wrinkled shirt I keep in my office closet for emergencies and hangovers. It smells like stale starch, but I pull it on anyway.
As I settle behind my desk, the noises from below filter up. I hear the pneumatic whine of the lift, the clank of a dropped ratchet, and Tyler’s raw-throated cursing as he fights with a seized bolt.
Forty-two unread emails and twelve urgent voicemails greet me. Payroll’s due by noon, and I haven’t even opened the goddamn spreadsheet yet. I drag my laptop over, tap the touchpad, and immediately regret it.
The glow from the screen isn’t as blinding as the mental image of Frankie replaying in my head. I try to focus on the numbers, but her laugh keeps popping up like a damn malware virus.
My gaze drifts to the glass wall. Every so often, one of the crew glances up at me—a quick check, then back to work. They’re dying to know what in the hell kept me off schedule for the first time ever. I can read the gossip in the tilt of their heads, the sideways snickers. If I were them, I’d be doing the same thing.
I blast through two hours of paperwork, half the time rage-typing at the mess the part supplier left in my accounts. Around eleven-thirty, I finally get payroll signed and sent. I let myself lean back, close my eyes, and think about nothing except how good it would feel to have Frankie in this office, bent over the desk, maybe in that ridiculous “BAD DECISIONS CLUB” t-shirt she wore yesterday.
The image is so sharp it nearly knocks the wind out of me. Jesus Christ, I’m becoming one of those guys. Smitten, pussy-whipped, and couldn’t be happier.
I hear the buzzer over the front door and look up, expecting the UPS guy or maybe one of the mechanics with a problem. It’s neither.
She’s here, and fuck, she’s gorgeous. Today she’s got on a shirt that says “I LIKE MY COFFEE BLACK AND MY KARMA INSTANT” in big block letters, knotted at her waist so it shows just the tiniest sliver of her stomach. Her denim skirt hugs her body so tightly it leaves nothing to the imagination when it comes to the curve of her hips, the length of her thighs, or her sweet, round ass. Her hair’s twisted up in a messy knot, glasses perched on her nose, and she’s squinting at me with a look that says she’s already in charge—I just haven’t figured it out yet.