Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
I lift my nose into the air, holding it there as best I can as the road gets rougher. “I saw your SUV and was coming to wish you a happy holiday,” I say, leaving out the part where I intended to get to the bottom of all his lurking and sneaking around Cassie Ann Sweetwater’s money laundering business.
Call me crazy, but now doesn’t seem like the right time to ask Matty what he’s been doing, hanging around the mob’s cupcake shop so much. With all the punching people and running away and driving like a bat out of hell out into the middle of nowhere that’s gone down today, I’m starting to think Matty might be in some kind of trouble.
He might be the trouble…
I know he races stock cars and has a reputation for being the most “dangerous” McGuire brother, but they’re the McGuire brothers. They’re one of the sweetest, best families in town, and have been for as long as I can remember. Even the worst McGuire brother is about as dangerous as a debutante with her daddy’s credit card set loose on my annual sample sale.
Or so I assumed…
But maybe I was wrong.
The look Matty shoots me as he guides the SUV under a gathering of trees in the center of an empty field of grass certainly isn’t sweet or non-threatening. He looks like he wants to strangle me. Or, at the very least, make good on his threat to turn me over his knee and spank me.
He thrusts the vehicle into park with one angry flex of his delicious forearm and shuts off the engine before pointing a stern finger in my face. “Quiet. And don’t unbuckle your belt. If they’re following us, I’ll have to floor it again and I don’t want to worry about your face going through the windshield.”
“Fine,” I say softly, holding back all the other things I want to say.
The worry on his face as he turns to gaze through the back windows over my shoulder is concerning enough to make me hold my peace. Matty might be in full asshole form, but he’s never given me reason to doubt his protective instincts.
When he told me to stand still while he intercepted the squirrel humping my messy bun like it’s one true love, he was right. When he swooped me into his arms and carried me away from that pirate cat, seconds before the feral creature severed my posterior tibial artery? Also, the right call. And the vengeful spirits at the haunted hotel were quickly banished by Matty’s “leave us alone and don’t come back” voice as he slow-danced with me in the dark before kissing me like I was the only woman he ever wanted to hold that close.
That kiss…
It only lasted for a few seconds, a few warm brushes of his lips against mine as his hands tightened on my waist, but it was by far the most intense kiss I’ve ever been a part of. I treasure that memory, even if it was followed by Matty walking away and acting like it never happened.
I still sigh a little every time I think about it.
It was simultaneously the most terrifying and romantic thing to happen to me in my entire life. My adult life, anyway. My childhood was pretty terrifying, but for not-at-all supernatural reasons.
The thought sends a fresh wave of fear scuttling up my spine on tiny scorpion feet.
My mother had a thing for dangerous men. My father was my old hometown’s most notorious “bad boy.” By the time I was born, however, he’d morphed into a bad man, the kind who loved his vices more than his kids and took out his frustration with the sorry state of his life on his wife. Their red-faced screaming matches are some of my most vivid early memories.
As kids, my brother and I would hide in the crawl space in the attic playing Monopoly by the light of an old camping lantern until they finally got drunk enough to pass out or one of them left for the night. As adults, we made a pact never to end up in a relationship like the one our parents had. Aaron made me swear to confront him if I saw him headed into trouble with a woman, and I made him promise the same.
I wonder what my brother would think of my situation right now, sitting in an SUV with a man with mob ties and bloody knuckles.
“Your hand,” I mutter, reaching for his wrist and lifting his knuckles gently to the gray November light.
“It’s fine,” he says, pulling away.
“No, it’s not,” I say, gently, but firmly drawing his hand back into my lap. “Your skin is totally split open. It needs to be cleaned and bandaged before it gets infected. I have a first aid kit in my purse.”