Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
For twenty years, I traveled the world as a special operations warrior. Newly retired at forty-two, I’m back in my hometown of Mount Hope, pursuing a second career as a small-town firefighter. My meddling sisters and best friends all have opinions about my life, but the only person who seems to truly understand me is Caleb, the younger firefighter tasked with my training.
After a lifetime of denying my attraction to other men, Caleb reminds me of everything I’ve missed out on. I’ve never even kissed a guy.
Until now.
Until Caleb.
Until I push our growing friendship to the next level. While sneaking around like a pair of teens, trying not to get caught by our coworkers, friends, and family, our sexy connection leads us to some…interesting places.
And it turns out that I like taking risks. I’ve never wanted a relationship, and neither of us should be fooling around with a coworker, but we keep courting danger.
The more time I spend with Caleb off and on the clock, the more I like him and the less certain I am about everything else in my life. The one thing I know for sure is that I can’t afford to lose this intense bond we share. Can we find our way from super secret to super real before the clock runs down on this fling?
OFF THE CLOCK features two coworkers with an age gap finding out that opposites really do attract and that first impressions aren’t always accurate. All the big emotions, small-town feels, and hot romance readers expect from this acclaimed author. While certain subplot threads continue throughout the series, each guaranteed happily ever after stands alone!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Tony
Faster. Move your feet, Private. The voice of my first staff sergeant rang in my ears twenty years after the fact, still loud enough to power my dash through the airport. My new sneakers pinched my instep. I’d bought the new-release kicks on a whim, but like everything else, the shoes were tight, unfamiliar, and in dire need of breaking in.
I raced ahead from the gate where my flight had landed, through the food court, down a long hallway, around—
Smack. The standing sign came out of nowhere to whop me in the chest. The force of the collision tipped the stupid thing over, and I lost precious seconds righting and repositioning it so other travelers wouldn’t make the same mistake.
Under Construction. The signs were all over the airport, cheery yellow-and-black banners that outnumbered the Welcome to Portland signage. Might as well be a metaphor for my whole damn life right now.
Sweat clung to my back as I pushed my pace toward baggage claim and the lines for various shuttle buses beyond that. Since when was Portland so hot in June? Or maybe I was getting old? My bag pulled at my bum shoulder with every step. God, forty-two had hit and hit hard. I reluctantly paused again, yanking off the hoodie I’d pulled on over my joke of a T-shirt, but better that than sweltering.
As I finally reached the lower level that housed baggage claim, a trio of young women with long streaked hair and tanned skin in sundresses came barreling through. They all pulled giant rolling suitcases, narrowly missing me as they headed for the revolving doors. They were undoubtedly returning from someplace warm and tropical, and their tittering laughter sounded like they might have had one last cocktail on the flight.
“Sorry!” the nearest woman called out as her two friends also stopped and swiveled.
“Oh-em-gee, I love your shirt,” the second young woman gushed as her other friend nodded more somberly.
“Thank you for your service.”
“Thanks.” I’d grown to hate that phrase, but seeing as how I was sporting a black In My Veteran Era T-shirt with the Army Ranger logo below it, I couldn’t be too grumpy. Instead, I took the opportunity to dart around them and head for the sign that marked where the Columbia River Gorge shuttle picked up. There were only a handful of shuttles back to my hometown each day, and I was already cutting it close for my friend Eric’s birthday barbecue in the park.
It was mostly my fault that I was running late. First, my connecting flight had been overbooked, and my old habit of always volunteering for the ticket voucher for bumped passengers when flying commercial had backfired when the next flight to Portland was delayed. Now, I was scrambling, but mercifully, the shuttle was still there, the driver standing by his door.
“Hey! I’ve got a reservation!” I yelled before he could get in the van. Given the low number of visitors to the Gorge most days, the shuttle company ran sleek sprinter vans that held a dozen passengers and luggage rather than full-size shuttle buses.
“Capo?” the driver asked as he looked down at a clipboard, pronouncing my last name with the long-a sound instead of the short-a my family used. He was an older fellow wearing an old-style cabbie hat with a sloped brim and had a friendly demeanor as he moved slowly with a slight limp.
“Tony Capo.” I followed him to the rear of the van to load my army-issue duffel before he could attempt to lift the bag, which took up the last available luggage spot. My shoulder protested my nobility yet again, but I was more than used to its crankiness.
“You coming home, soldier?” The driver nodded at my shirt and bag.
“Yep.”
“Did my time in the navy, but you’re welcome aboard, Army.” The driver gestured at the first row, which held the only open seat other than a small fold-down jump seat near the door.
“Thanks.” I climbed into the van and arranged myself in the window seat, using my hoodie as a pillow. I was about to shut my eyes when another traveler came running up.
“Wait! Wait! I’m on this shuttle,” the young guy with a faint California accent called to the driver. He was a tall, gangly, blue-haired, goth-looking kid toting a giant, battered backpack. Of course, these days, anyone under thirty-five looked like a kid to me, but this guy’s baby face didn’t look old enough to order a beer. Clearly old enough, though, to sign consent for piercings and tats, of which he had an abundance. The kid gave a weary exhale as he leaned against the van, waiting for the driver to come around.
“No more luggage room,” the driver announced. “Everyone squeeze in.”
No one else even so much as shifted. The rest of the van was mainly retiree-aged folks and two business-looking dudes in polo shirts. And not one of them wanted to create space for the kid and his mammoth bag.