Page 31 of Ruthless Love

This Pandora’s box is opening wide, and there’s no going back.

Chapter Sixteen

EVIE

Big Sur, California

While Coop whisks Margot away in their own vintage convertible, I’m left with a man I’ve seen more often with his clothes off than on. And for that reason alone, I’m having a hard time looking him in the eye. Or maybe I’m just magnetically drawn to his crotch. Either way, heat’s rising in my cheeks, and I’m grateful for a breezy convertible ride to cool down.

Always a gentleman, Austin opens my car door, and I slide onto the seat with an apprehension that brims with excitement as his body closes in. Which is ridiculous because he’s not interested in a relationship. At least, I keep telling myself that.

Instinctively, Austin and I play it off like we don’t know each other. Which, for all practical purposes, isn’t exactly a lie. We don’t. I mean, I know some things about him.

Name: Austin. Whose last name is apparently Byrne.

Status: Single, and for the right price, ready to mingle.

Occupation: Pussy-pleaser. Aka, lady-killer.

Tattoos: So many lickable ones, I can’t get a count because I keep getting lost in them. Especially the one over his heart.

Strengths: Between his God-given and perfectly carved physique and that heart of gold, too many to list. Even that smart ass of his is flawless.

Weakness: Pie.

Laughing to myself, but loud enough to be noticed, I rethink that one. Not just any pie. My pie. Now that I’m both laughing and squirming, his attention veers from the road to me.

“Spill. What’s so funny?” he asks, and when the heat rising in my cheeks fuels my giggles, he smirks. “Got it. You’re thinking something dirty. Which I can only imagine is about me.”

He waggles his brows, and I feel like an idiot for avoiding him. Or maybe this is how he makes all women feel. Important. Beautiful. Special.

With as straight a face as I can muster, I say, “For your information, I was thinking about pie.”

“Yours, of course. You are evil. Nothing, and I mean nothing, tastes better than your pie.”

In that moment, he pins me with a stare, and a second later, we’re both roaring with laughter.

I push the edge of the envelope. “Well, I’ve been told my peach is the sweetest.”

“I imagine it’s sweet ... and sticky,” he says, trying to keep a straight face, and we both howl with laughter.

I’m in stitches, barely able to breathe as I get out an ewww. “I believe the correct term is juicy. But it’s not fuzzy. I thoroughly defuzz it.”

“That would’ve been my guess.”

The ride up the Pacific Coast Highway is carefree, relaxing me by the second. Every knot in my neck unwinds, and I kick off my shoes. The wind whipping through the open convertible whips my hair, making it dance in crazy movements across my face and neck.

And the more my hair has to be a shitshow of unruliness, the more liberated I feel.

Who the hell cares how I look? I’m not here to keep up with the Joneses, or look perfect for the masses. I’m just hanging out with a sweet, funny, gorgeous hunk of a man who’s professionally conditioned to not give a damn how I look.

I tug a pair of oversize sunglasses from my bag and slip them on. “Seems like they have no idea that we know each other.”

“For all they know, we’ve just met.” Austin’s boyish grin is kissable. I mean, diabolical.

God help me, I mean kissable.

“Well,” I say, “we sort of have. I mean, other than where every last tattoo of yours is, I really don’t know anything about you.”

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