Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“It was the only place to fill up between Big Sur and San Simeon—can you believe that? Talk about desperate. Don’t know what I would’ve done had I not seen their billboard on the highway.”
“What a racket,” he replies, and I hitch my eyebrows. “Think about it. They’re the only station for miles, so they can set their prices any way they like.”
“True.” Though I can’t imagine Jack doing something like that—not that I know him all that well.
“Were they sky high?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“What about the service on your car?”
“Wasn’t any more than what the dealer charges.” I wince, recalling the same song and dance I alleged when I first heard the news. “Plus, it’s a foreign car, and parts are normally more expensive.”
“True.” He sips his beer and looks off into the distance. “Well, now I just wonder if they’re clueless about the goldmine they’re sitting on.”
Jack certainly didn’t seem clueless, but I don’t tell Rocco that.
Our food is delivered, and we dig in while my thoughts spin. Jack was offended when I accused them of running a schtick. I was an idiot for doing that, but in my defense, I’d been out of sorts. The town was interesting too, but not unlike any other small coastal setting in California. I didn’t understand the curse thing, but the place definitely had some quirks.
Some might’ve thought it was only a pit stop for gas, but when you headed toward the mountains and away from the ocean view, it had a charm all its own. Enough that I often wish I had stayed longer and had time to explore. Or maybe it had everything to do with a comfy bed and Jack McCoy.
“You think he’d sell it?” Rocco asks around a bite of a chicken wing.
My spine stiffens. “The service station?”
“Why do you look surprised?” He waves his bone. “We could make it something good and experiment with the prices.”
I don’t think someone like Jack McCoy will ever consider selling, given that his roots run deep in Aqua Vista, but what do I know? I only spent a handful of hours with him. And fuck, I liked what I saw. How he handled me all rough and raw, his gruff demeanor only adding to the tension between us.
“I don’t know if that’s—”
“Why are you overthinking this?” Rocco asks. “We’ve purchased dozens of properties and businesses over the years. It’s what we do.”
“True, it’s just…I’m not sure he’s the kind of man who would sell.”
We’ve made offers on other businesses that weren’t for sale but seemed like a good investment. You never know about the owner’s interest or disinterest until you’ve tried.
“Throw a figure at him and see what happens.”
“I suppose it’s worth a shot. I’d have to do more research on the area and see what kind of offer would be considered acceptable.”
Plus, there’s the curiosity factor—about Aqua Vista and Jack McCoy. The thought of seeing him again makes a shiver travel up my spine. But mixing business with pleasure is never a good idea. Besides, he’s likely only into one-offs, given that he made himself scarce the next day.
“I could make a long weekend of it and try to read the mood of the town better,” I suggest. The idea creates a spark of excitement in me.
“Make it a week or two if you want. You could probably use it.” He throws me a pointed look, and I take it to mean that not only am I not good with free time, but we could really use this deal. “Might be nice to work with an ocean view.”
“Wanna tag along?” I ask hesitantly, hoping for a solo trip.
He smirks. “You really want me cock-blocking you?”
“Pretty sure that needs to be off the table if we’re going to discuss what his business might be worth.” I won’t remind him that he met his fiancée, Corrine, that way. Sometimes, attraction is unavoidable.
“True.” He frowns. “I’m sure you’ll use your best judgment.”
Or not, and it’ll be a bust all around.
2
JACK
I’m behind the counter, ringing up a customer, when a familiar car rolls into the station.
No, it can’t be. I haven’t seen that guy in months.
But it’s him. Aaron Edwards. Before I can rearrange my shocked face, his long legs unfold from the BMW and eat the distance toward the door.
“Uh-oh,” Frank says, standing beside me at the counter. “Is he here to complain about the service done on his car?”
“Guess we’re about to find out,” I mutter as the bell jingles and his broad smile makes my stomach clench. He was good in the sack, which I’ve revisited on plenty of occasions while jerking off.
But I can’t allow my thoughts to travel in that direction. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
He heads toward the vending machine with a fistful of coins. “I’m taking some time off and thought I’d spend it here.”