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)
“I keep you around, don’t I?” I shoot back.
He barks a laugh, then takes a long look at the red Ferrari. “Goddamn, that’s a pretty one. You get to drive it yet?”
I shake my head. “Client’s paranoid. Watches the odometer like it’s his wife’s phone bill.”
Jim smirks and takes the conversation in an old, annoying direction. “It’s about time you find your own woman.”
“Not fucking happening,” I grumble and turn to head back to the pile of paperwork currently reproducing on my desk.
Jim calls behind me, “Never say never,” and I ignore the fucker.
While I work, the shop fills up with the music of compressed air, steel, and muttered profanity. By seven a.m., the rest of the crew’s in, every man and woman in their station, sleeves up, heads down.
My cellphone rings and I answer without glancing at the screen. “Rutherford.”
The voice on the other end is the sheriff’s dispatcher from Silver Spoon Falls, a wealthy town a few miles away. “Dillon found a stranded motorist with a disabled vehicle out on Route 10. He wanted to know if you have time to come check it out.” That’s a good twenty miles away. No, I don’t really have time, but I never refuse the sheriff.
“Fine,” I say. “Text me the coordinates. I’ll send someone out.”
After hanging up with her, I head out to the shop to see if anyone has time to make the run. Unfortunately, it seems I’m the only one who can fit it into their day. Fuck me.
The sun has just decided to give a shit about today by the time I’m halfway down Route 10. Silver Spoon Falls disappears in the mirror, replaced by barbed-wire fences, crumbling feed stores, and roadside billboards selling firework mortars to twelve-year-olds with more ambition than sense.
Dispatch said, “disabled vehicle,” but what they meant was “tin can on wheels died in the most dramatic possible fashion.” After cresting the last rise before the old quarry, I see a little red Fiat 500, hazards on, smoke burping from the engine compartment like a signal flare.
I park a respectful distance back and kill the ignition. Dillon Armstrong strides over to my truck with a smirk on his face. “Good luck with this one, my friend.” He tips his hat at me. “I’d love to stay and watch the fun, but I’ve got a date with a big fucking cup of coffee back at the station.”
“What fun?” I call behind the crazy bastard.
“You’ll see.” I look around for the stranded motorist, but there’s no one around. I grab my toolkit, cross the gravel shoulder, and knock on the glass, ready to get this shit done so I can get back to my ever-growing pile of paperwork.
Instead, the driver’s door opens, and my heart seizes in my chest when a stunning blonde steps out. She has large, round glasses perched delicately on her charming button nose, adding a touch of intellectual allure to her face and making her blue eyes stand out. It's the kind of face that belongs on the cover of a magazine, exuding confidence and poise. Yet, her mane of blonde curls cascades wildly around her shoulders, defying both the laws of God and gravity with a rebellious spirit.
Her shirt boldly declares “Bad Decisions Club,” while her jeans cling to her curves with a precision that seems crafted for the most tantalizing of dreams.
“Are you going to stare at me all day?”
I just fucking might. I actually want to stare at her for the rest of my life. Goddamn it. Where the fuck is all this coming from? I rub the back of my neck and hold out my hand to her. “Hi, I’m Seth Rutherford.”
“Frankie,” she huffs and reaches out to shake my hand. Fucking hell. My cock turns to stone in my pants as my breath seizes in my goddamn chest. She steps back a little and points to the elderly Fiat. “And this is Sparkie. I can’t believe she chose today to pull this stunt.”
I open the hood and barely manage to bite back my gasp at the disaster hiding beneath it. “Nice name,” I mutter, propping the hood with one hand and poking around the radiator with the other. “You run it hot for long?”
She frowns. “I was halfway to Galveston before the little dashboard light stopped looking like a suggestion and more like an omen.”
The engine bay is a disaster zone with swollen hoses and coolant everywhere, the kind of self-inflicted wound I’d expect from a college sophomore, not someone who speaks in perfectly enunciated, judgmental sentences.
“Your timing belt’s shot to hell and your radiator’s leaking like a goddamn sieve,” I announce, wiping my hands on a rag.
She sighs, and for a moment, her armor slips. “That bad?”
“Yep.” No use sugarcoating it. Plus, her car is the least of my worries right now. At the moment, I’m fighting the urge to throw her gorgeous ass over my shoulder and head for the hills. Fucking Jim’s earlier words flash through my mind, and I realize the universe decided to take that motherfucker’s side. I turn back to the mess under her hood and switch back into work mode. “I’m sure we can fix it, but I have to get it back to my shop for a more in-depth look. I’ll tow it in.”