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 close my eyes, but instead of blankness, it’s her I see. The smile, the laugh, the way she said my name.
“Fuck.” My words fill the empty room, and the echo comes back at me like a challenge.
I’m in trouble with this one.
I’ve been in trouble before, but this time? I’m in it for life.
CHAPTER 4
FRANKIE
I stare at my reflection in the lobby mirror, finding a study in controlled panic. My wild curls are barely corralled into a half-hearted bun, and my perfectly applied lipstick is already chewed at the corners.
I pace the length of the Silver Spoon Inn’s lobby, pretending to admire the hydrangea explosion on the reception desk, but actually just trying to keep my heart from vibrating out of my chest as it thuds against my ribs. Every five seconds, I peek through the glass doors impatiently.
“You waiting for your fella?” chirps the desk clerk, a lady with fuchsia lipstick and an eclectic sense of fashion.
“I don’t have a ‘fella,’” I reply, a little too fast. “It’s a… business dinner. About my car.” Liar, liar pants on fire. Something is happening between me and the hot mechanic, but I’m afraid to actually give it a label.
“Mmhmm.” She doesn’t buy it for a millisecond. “You might wanna take a few calming breaths before you hyperventilate.”
She has a point. I’m wound tighter than a clock spring. I plop onto the velvet settee, cross my legs, uncross, and cross them again.
I glance up at the clock, then at the parking lot again. That’s when I see him.
He's in black dress pants that hug his thighs like they're custom-tailored, making his muscular legs look like they could snap tree trunks without breaking a sweat. His crisp black shirt stretches across broad shoulders, sleeves rolled precisely to mid-forearm, revealing tanned wrists and the edge of an intricate tattoo. His dark hair is combed back with just enough product to tame it, slicked at the temples where a hint of silver catches the light. It’s still touchably soft on top, suggesting effort that carefully masquerades as effortlessness.
There’s a glint of an expensive watch at his wrist, and every muscle on display looks cut from angry granite. I would not have pegged him for a dress-up type. I am, briefly, knocked so far off my axis that I forget to breathe.
But it’s the smell that hits first when he steps close. Something expensive, blue cedar and citrus, with an undercurrent of pure freaking yummy male. I practically have to grip the settee to keep my body’s response from embarrassing me.
The desk clerk glances over. “Well, damn,” she mutters, “that’s one hell of a fella you don’t have.” Then she immediately finds something urgent to do in the back office.
Seth’s eyes sweep the lobby, land on me, and he gives me an intimate smile that warms my body from the inside out. He strides over, stops at the edge of the carpet, and holds out his hand for me. As our palms make contact, I swear electricity arcs across the room.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says, leaning over to place a soft kiss on my cheek. My insides turn to mush as the lobby disappears around us.
Before I’m able to make too much of a fool of myself, Seth leads me out of the lobby.
The city hums around us as we stroll down the crowded sidewalk, weaving through the throngs of people. Our steps come to a halt at a breathtakingly sleek, glossy black classic Mustang parked along the curb. Its polished chrome gleams under the city lights, and I can't help but be in awe of its timeless elegance. Wow.
“Your car is beautiful,” I breathe as he opens the door for me.
“Thank you.” He smiles as I lower myself into the seat, and the heat of the leather sears through my dress. Caught between his yummy scent and the warm Texas night, I bite my tongue to keep from muttering the truly filthy comment that instantly pops into my mind. The interior is immaculate, all hand-stitched leather and brushed metal, and the dashboard smells faintly of something sweet and nostalgic.
He slides into the driver’s seat in one smooth movement, and the car rocks gently with his weight. When he fires the engine, the sound is a throaty growl that vibrates up through my feet.
The drive only takes a few minutes, but every second is loaded. Seth’s right hand manages the shift, and every time he reaches for it, his fingers brush my knee, sending an electric pulse up my thigh and straight to my core. I pretend not to notice, but my traitor skin turns hypersensitive.
Just to have something to say, I blurt out, “So, about my Fiat. Are you gonna tell me what kind of organ I’ll have to sell to pay for the repairs?”