Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
I forced myself to look away from the heat in his eyes. “I should go.”
“Yes, you should.” His voice was gravelly and rough like I imagined it would be if he were fucking me. Would he talk dirty as he pushed into me, took me, used me? Why the hell did I want that so much?
I tried to take a step back, but he held onto my arms. “I can’t leave when you’re holding me. You have to let me go.”
“Do I?”
Jesus, I was really beginning to wonder if he’d put a spell on me. It couldn’t be normal to hate a man this much and still want to offer him anything he asked for. “Yes.”
“For now,” he consented. As soon as he released me, I stepped back, and a chill ran through me. I hadn’t realized how warm I’d gotten with him so close. He was like a fucking heater.
“Don’t be late,” he said.
Did he know how rarely I was ever on time? “I… I won’t.”
“Here.” He held out a set of keys.
I frowned. “What are these for?”
“There’s a Chevy Blazer parked out front.” He pointed to an ancient SUV. “Use it as a loaner to get yourself home and bring it back on Monday.”
I wanted to complain, but until then I hadn’t even thought about how the hell I was going to get home since I was leaving Remy’s car with Beau. I didn’t want to call someone who worked for my family.
Beau gave me a slow smile that let me know he knew I hadn’t made plans. I turned and left, wanting to run but forcing myself to walk only slightly faster than normal. He was watching me. I could feel it, and just like the first time, I couldn’t stop myself from looking back at him as I pulled out of the parking space.
I couldn’t see him well as he stood under the dim light over the door, but I was convinced he’d winked at me. The bastard.
The first time my alarm went off on Monday, I must have hit snooze, but I had no memory of that. The second time, I vaguely remembered wondering what the fuck my phone was doing going off when it was dark outside. It took a few more cycles of snoozing it until I remembered I was supposed to be at Beau’s body shop.
I sat up way too fast, and my head swam. Saturday, I’d decided I was too tired to drive to Metairie and pack the shit I’d need to house sit at Remy’s. I could get it later. Then I’d slept through a lot of Sunday, despite the loud Mardi Gras revelers in the street. Then some friends had called and enticed me to go out with them. By the time I found my way back to Remy’s, I was too drunk to go home. I’d have to make do without my shit for another day. I had a few changes of clothes at my brother’s. I’d be fine.
When I’d crawled into Remy’s guest bed on Sunday night, it hadn’t mattered how tired I was, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the hell Beau was going to put me through the next day and how I was such an idiot that I’d probably like it, and he would know. How the fuck did he read me so well?
Eventually, I’d given up on falling asleep and consoled myself with some of the finer things in Remington’s liquor cabinet.
I’d known I’d regret it. Being hungover on my first day at Beau’s shop was going to suck donkey balls, but he’d never said I had to do a good job, just that I had to show up and work.
I massaged my forehead, then managed to read the time on my phone. Oh shit. That couldn’t be right, could it? How did it get so late? Even if I raced through my shower and—fuck me—none of the clothes I had at Remy’s were at all appropriate. It was bad enough that I was going to be late, now I was also going to be dressed like a mobster rather than a mechanic. Maybe if I wore a suit, Beau would put me behind the counter. I’d improve the image of the place. No, that was a lie. Beau made a damn fine image behind the counter.
I was going to be late. There was no way around it. My throbbing head wasn’t going to let me rush.
At ten minutes after seven, I walked through the door of the body shop in dress pants and a button-down with a vicious headache, an unsettled stomach, and not one ounce of caffeine in me. I hadn’t been able to figure out Remy’s absurdly complicated coffee maker in the thirty seconds I had to try and make myself a cup. Why the hell couldn’t he just have a Keurig like everyone else?