Page 1 of Drive Her Wild

Chapter One

JACKSON

BAM!

A little white BMW slams into the rear panel of my truck. Before I have a moment to react, she shoves open the driver’s side door. She must not be local because I’ve met everyone in this small town.

And I would remember her.

Her thick, curly, strawberry-blonde hair cascades down her back as she quickly climbs out of her smashed-up car. A shin-length, puffy winter coat covers almost every inch of her body, but if it is anything like her face, I’m going to take the liberty of assuming it must be absolutely beautiful. My gaze is fixated on her pouty, pink lips as they move. Not to be eclipsed by her full cheeks, a cute slightly upturned nose, and shimmering emerald eyes.

She’s seriously gorgeous…

…and angry. So fucking angry.

“What the hell?” she yells as she slams the door shut and storms to the back of her car to survey the damage.

I have barely stepped from my truck when those captivating eyes of hers lock on to mine. She throws her hands in the air and groans, “Were you even watching where you were going?”

“Ma’am, you backed into my truck.” A slight smile ticks at the corner of my mouth. She is a fucking firecracker, and it’s adorable as hell.

“Well, yeah,” she huffs, “but only because you pulled behind me when I was already backing out. You should’ve waited. Or do you not know common courtesy out here in the boonies?”

The boonies?

Yes, of course.

The desolate, bustling downtown of Coal’s Lake.

“No, ma’am.” I tip my head at her. “You were not backing out when I drove behind your car.”

“For Heaven’s sake, if you fucking call me ma’am one more time.” Her face tinges red with anger. “Please tell me you at least have insurance on that ratty old truck!”

“Ratty old truck?” I scoff and suddenly feel myself become irate as well. “This is not a ratty old truck. This is a 1956 Chevy 3100!”

“Like I said,” she scoffs before drawing out the word. “Old.”

“It’s not old,” I raise my fingers in air quotes. “It’s a classic.”

“Classic. Old. Same difference.” She shrugs her shoulders at me. “Do you have insurance or not? That’s all I really care about, so I can get to work.”

“Of course, I have insurance.” I open the passenger door of my truck and pull my information from the glovebox. Before I have the opportunity to hand it to her, she tears it from my hands, and lays it on the trunk of her car, snapping a photo of it with her phone. I raise an eyebrow at her when she doesn’t hand me hers in exchange. “And yours?”

“It’s on my phone,” she huffs. “I can text it to you. What’s your number?”

“If you wanted my number, you could’ve just asked for it.” I am unable to control the smirk that creeps over my face.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She glances at my truck and then eyes me over.

There isn’t a doubt in my mind that she is judging my worth—or lack thereof—from the greasy coveralls I am wearing. It’s not new for me. I’m actually quite used to it. Women see a grease monkey and assume we’re uneducated and broke. Most don’t take the opportunity to learn that I graduated from MIT at twenty and sold off a small tech company for millions by the time I was thirty. I work on cars because I love it, and the idea of sitting on a beach until I’m old bores the fuck out of me.

“Do you want my insurance details or not?” She shakes her phone at me for me to put in my number. I key it in and hand it back to her.

A moment later, I feel mine buzz in my pocket. When I pull it out, I swipe it open to ensure it was a text from her. Reading aloud quietly to myself, “Amaya”

“What?” She spins around and faces me.

“Just reading the card, ma’am.” I can’t even describe my delight in watching her jaw tick at the word.

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