Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
At me.
I didn’t know what to do, so I waved back. Confused, so confused, and worried now.
That didn’t help the pissed-off man. Like at all. “The garage is still part of the house! Don’t play that technicality game with me,” he growled, making a dismissive gesture with his hand.
That was a big arm attached to that hand now that I got a look at it. I was pretty sure I’d seen some veins popping along his forearm. What did those patches say though? I tried to squint.
“No means no,” the stranger went on when the boy opened his mouth to argue with him. “I can’t believe you did this. How could you go behind my back? You posted it online?” He was shaking his head like he really was stunned. “Were you planning on letting some creeps stay here while I was gone?”
Creeps?
Me?
Realistically, I knew that this was none of my business.
But.
I still couldn’t keep my mouth shut as I tossed in, “Umm, for the record, I’m not a creep. And I can show you my reservation. I paid for the whole month up front—”
Shit.
The boy winced, and that had the man taking a step forward under better lighting, giving me my first real good look at his face. At the whole of him.
And what a face it was.
Even when I’d been with Kaden, I would have done a double take at the man under the lights. What? I wasn’t dead. And he had that kind of face. I’d seen a lot of them, I would know.
I couldn’t think of a single makeup artist that wouldn’t call his features chiseled, not pretty by any means but masculine, sharp, highlighted by his mouth forming a tight scowl and his thick eyebrows flat across his remarkable, heavy brow bones. And there was that impressive, strong jaw. I was pretty sure he had a little cleft in his chin too. He had to be in his early forties.
“Rough handsome” would be the best way to describe him. Maybe even “ridiculously handsome” if he didn’t look about ready to kill someone like he did right then.
Nothing at all like my ex’s million-dollar, boy-next-door looks that had made thousands of women swoon.
And ruined our relationship.
Maybe I would send that shit pie eventually. I’d think about it some more.
Basically, this man arguing with a tween or teenage boy, with a gun on his belt and wearing what looked to me to be some kind of law-enforcement-type uniform, was unbelievably handsome.
And . . . he was a silver fox, I confirmed when the light hit his hair just perfectly to show off what could have been brown or black mixed in with the much lighter, striking color.
And he didn’t give a single shit about what I was saying as he snapped words out in the most level, talking-voice volume I’d ever heard. I might have been impressed if I wasn’t so worried I was about to get screwed.
“Dad . . .” the boy started again. The kid had dark hair and a smooth, almost baby face, his skin a very light brown. His limbs were long under a black band T-shirt as he slid into place between his dad and me like a buffer.
“A whole month?”
Yeah, he’d heard that part.
The kid didn’t even flinch as he replied, very quietly, “You won’t let me get a job. How else am I supposed to make money?”
That vein on the man’s face popped again; color rose up along his cheekbones and ears. “I know what you want the money for, Am, but you know what I said too. Your mom, Billy, and I all agreed. You don’t need a three-thousand-dollar guitar when yours works just fine.”
“I know it works fine, but I still want—”
“But you don’t need it. It isn’t going to—”
“Dad, please,” the Amos kid pleaded. Then he gestured at me with a thumb over his shoulder. “Look at her. She’s not a creep. Her name’s Aurora. De La Torre. I looked her up on Picturegram. She only posts pictures of food and animals.” The teenager glanced at me over his shoulder, blinking once before shaking himself out of it, his expression turning almost frantic, like he too knew this conversation wasn’t going well. “Everybody knows sociopaths don’t like animals, you said, remember? And look at her.” His head tilted to the side.
I shrugged off his last comment and focused on the important part of what he’d mentioned. Someone had done his research . . . but what else did he know?
But he wasn’t wrong. Other than those and some selfies or shots with friends—and people I used to think were my friends but weren’t—I really did only post pictures of food and animals I met. That reality, and the bags and boxes sitting on the ground close by, were just another reminder that I wanted to be here, that I had things I needed to do in this area.