Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Damn, I’m such an idiot.
As if anyone wants to eat pseudo-food that’s been whirling away on hot rollers for hours on end, getting stale and dry. The lazy fucks didn’t even come out to check on us after the accident, and we’ve been parked in their lot now for at least ten minutes. Still . . . “Blake. You can call me Blake.”
I see her mouth move, as though she’s silently saying my name. I want to taste it on her lips.
But then it’s like a pink haze clears and she robotically says, “I won’t be saying it at all. Call the county offices. They’ll handle the insurance. Goodbye, Mr. Hale.”
Our conversation clearly over, she goes to the back of her car and gets out a large black bag and what looks like a tackle box, obviously tools of her trade. A minute later, another dark sedan pulls up and she gets in, consciously avoiding my gaze as she pulls away from me.
I have the urge to chase after her, but that’s ridiculous. Even if I found her stunningly gorgeous and intriguing, with her running hot and then cold, I’m not superpowered.
Besides, thirty seconds after Zoey drives off, a county patrol car pulls up, and I’ve got other shit to worry about as a deputy gets out, leaning on the hood. “Well now . . . guess I should call for a couple o’ wreckers now, shouldn’t I?”
No shit, Sherlock.
Chapter 3
Blake
I watch the first wrecker’s tail lights disappear easily, the traffic having cleared. It’s not surprising. That’s what traffic does—backs up because of a slow-moving tractor or an accident, and then it disappears when there’s enough time and space for everyone to move.
Sucks that it cleared just in time to let Zoey drive away from me, though.
With a sigh, I get into the Uber I had to call and slowly pull out of the gas station too, unfortunately going the opposite direction as Zoey.
A few minutes later, we pull up to the address my sister, Amy, gave me. It’s nothing more than a corn field among other corn fields. I’d think she was setting me up for one of her pranks, except her car is sitting on the side of the road.
“You sure, dude?” my driver asks, looking around with concern.
“Yeah,” I tell him, tapping his tablet to confirm the charges. “Thanks.”
I get out and see my sister. For argument's sake, she drives a very sensible white Volvo. Not a pink Barbie car in sight.
But she’s already scowling. “You’re late, Frosted Blakes. And what’s with the fuckin’ Uber?”
Ugh, the nickname she gave me when we were kids.
It drives me crazy and there’s not a single other person I allow to call me that without dire consequences. Until Amy met and married Fernanda. Since Amy always calls me Frosted Blakes, Fernanda took up the habit, and I respect—and fear—her enough that I let it slide with her too.
“Yeah, had a bit of a holdup on the way here,” I reply evenly.
That stops her from putzing with the camera she’s tweaking even though there’s a cameraman standing right there who is eyeing Amy like she’s messing with his baby.
“What happened?”
She knows I have contingency plans for my emergency plans and always leave early in case I’m delayed. But even I couldn’t have foreseen Zoey Walker.
“Bit more than a fender bender,” I say carefully, knowing that it’s like ever-so-politely pulling the pin on a grenade. “Had to call a wrecker.”
“What?” she yells, smacking the cameraman for no good reason. He recoils, and I understand. My sister throws chops like a pro wrestler. “Are you okay?”
She comes over and starts turning my face left and then right as she checks me over.
“Still good looking?” I ask with a smile.
She smacks me then too. Somewhere, I think Ric Flair just yelled ‘WHOOOOOO!’ without knowing why. “Don’t get cocky with me, Blake. Are you hurt? What happened? What about the other guy?”
When I don’t answer her barrage of questions fast enough, one hand goes to her hip as she growls, “Well?”
I grin. “You look just like Mom when you do that ‘I already know what you did, so you might as well confess’ face.”
Amy growls at the comparison, even though Mom’s a good woman who’s dealt with more than enough shit from raising Amy and me. “Don’t deflect. Spill.”
I give in, knowing it’s useless to resist. “She pulled out and T-boned my passenger side. We got the cars into the parking lot and exchanged information. She was fine, I’m fine.” I make sure to deliver the details as succinctly and dryly as possible, but Amy has known me since the day I was born and knows all my tells. Even the ones I don’t know I have, which must be what gives me away because she digs in for more information.