Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Get it together, Norah. Do not make this more awkward for this guy than you already have.
The man behind the wheel looks to be midthirties, is definitely attractive, but he’s also big and kind of intimidating. A real brute of a man. He could play hockey or football and certainly gets more than enough protein every day. For all I know, his favorite pastime includes lifting big, heavy things for fun.
If we were back in the Stone Age, he’d be the alpha of the tribe, his brow and nose and chin all screaming “marble-cut barbarian.”
It also looks like he hasn’t shaved in at least a month. He has thick brown hair that’s showcasing an “I just run my fingers through it” kind of style, and splatters of pastel-colored paint mar the skin on his hands.
Basically, he’s attractive in a can-make-women-turn-feral kind of way. Still intimidating as all get-out, but definitely good-looking.
I bet he’s the type of guy who tears your panties and throws you up against the wall when he wants to make you come. And when he does make you come—
“You need a ride or what?”
His question is an abrupt snap of fingers in front of my face.
“Wh-what?” I pause and silently pray I heard him correctly. “You’ll give me a ride?”
“You threw your body in front of my truck,” he states without humor. “Anyone that desperate gets a lift to the town square, at least.”
Hold the phone. I didn’t throw my body in front of anything. I stepped in front of his truck. Walked to the middle of the road. Calmly made my presence known. But I definitely didn’t throw my body in front of his vehicle like some kind of desperate woman being chased by Michael Myers with a chainsaw.
Don’t get sassy, Norah. Just be polite and accept the damn ride.
“Thanks. I’ll get my bag,” I answer, keeping my manners intact. Quickly, I move back around the front of the truck to the side of the road where the dusty Louis sits.
I reach for the handle, but a big hand grabs it before I can, the weight of his presence behind me hitting like his truck, had he not managed to stop.
Is he some kind of ninja? I didn’t even hear his door open.
I have to look up, up, up to meet his eyes, and I realize just how tall the macho man is. He has to be well over six feet and makes my average five-foot-four frame look pint-sized.
If this were a rom-com movie, this would be our meet-cute. I’d be the petite damsel in distress, and he’d be the big, strong, and sexy hero ready to save the day. But I’m not Emma Stone, this isn’t a movie, and if I go by his tight jawline or furrowed brow, this guy isn’t thrilled with his supposed hero role. Or me, for that matter.
Without a word, he lifts my suitcase and carries it to his truck, tossing it in the bed like it weighs less than a trash bag full of feathers. And then, he’s back in the driver’s seat before I can say thank you. Before I can say or do anything, actually.
I guess this is the part where I get inside the truck?
2
Bennett
I glance through my windshield and see the woman just standing in the middle of the road, looking at my truck and not moving.
What is she doing?
First, she asked me for a ride by playing a game of chicken with my truck, and now that I’ve agreed and tossed her suitcase in the bed, she’s…not going to take it?
It’d certainly be the smart thing to do. Hitchhiking a ride from a total stranger isn’t generally touted as safe.
I let out a sigh and reach forward to fiddle with the radio, turning up the volume on the only station available in Red Bridge to drown out my growing irritation.
I don’t know what she’s doing out here, on the outskirts of Red Bridge, but she’s not a local. Her expensive suitcase and designer boots and the T-shirt that molds tightly over her perky tits, and that probably costs more than most people’s entire wardrobes, is proof of that.
I’d say she’s from Boston or Chicago or…New York.
Yeah. I scoff to myself. Definitely a New Yorker.
I should know; I was born and raised there.
And since she doesn’t look a day over midtwenties, I’d guess she’s the worst kind of New Yorker—a trust-fund baby New Yorker. Probably the daughter of some rich asshole who works in tech or makes a living out of stealing people’s money under the guise of investments or some shit.
I glance through the windshield again and note that she’s still giving her best impression of a statue. My eyes scan the black letters on her white T-shirt, J’adore Dior.
Give me a break.
It looks like something my sister Breezy would wear. And she looks like the kind of woman who spends her afternoons on Fifth Avenue, contemplating if she should get the Chanel or the Dior handbag to match the cocktail dress she’s going to wear to some stupid charity function where the money very rarely goes to charity and serves as one hell of a tax write-off for the wealthy attendees.