Page 4 of Ruthless Wars

Sure, this spaghetti-strap number is barely holding in my girls, but it’s fine under a blazer and pairs well with the black pencil skirt I’m wearing. This outfit is killing it for rocking a nightclub. For changing a tire? Passable.

At least it’s not too chilly tonight.

When a flood of headlights washes over me, I’m a little mortified that the beams catch me with my butt hanging out as I dig through the trunk. I whirl around, shielding my eyes from the blinding-white light with my arm. Instantly, the arriving car kills its engine, and the million-watt beams of light pinning me in place vanish.

“Need some help?” a husky voice calls out.

Even from the shadows, I can see the tall stranger who approaches is definitely handsome. With the freeway lights overhead, I make out enough detail to know three things.

One, the man is local, based on his Texas plates.

Two, the smile on his stubbled face gives his hard jaw a warmth that’s a deadly combination of both sweet and naughty.

And three, his body is absolutely lickable, with the chisel of every muscle barely contained beneath his dark T-shirt and stylish jeans. Hell, with arms like that, he could practically lift the car like a toy and pop the wheels off with his fingertips.

Before I can respond, he moves to the side of the car, examining the flat tire while rubbing his face.

And that’s when I recognize him. Cup o’ cock. From the coffee shop.

“It’s a flat,” he says, stating the obvious.

“Yes. I was about to change it.”

With a huffed laugh, he scratches his head while his gaze slowly sweeps over me. “Uh, you can’t change this tire.”

I’m pretty sure for any woman born after the 1800s, words like that are a big, fat trigger. Heels be damned, I’m changing this tire for women everywhere. Asshole.

“Well, Triple-A, I appreciate your opinion, but women can do a lot of things. Work. Vote. Think. And I can sure as hell change a tire.” Repeating the words of my father, spoken time and time again whenever I tried to con a guy into doing something that might chip a nail, I proudly say, “I am beholden to no man.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be changing my tire.”

“Okay.” The patronizing tone in his drawn-out word is annoying as hell. And it pisses me off to stratospheric levels when he nonchalantly plops his ridiculously tight ass on the hood of his car to watch. “I’ll be here when you need me.”

“If I need you. And you don’t have to.”

“Look, I can tell by your I am woman, hear me roar attitude that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. But there’s no way I’m leaving you out here to fend for yourself. Even if you can work and vote. Oh, and think. Let’s not forget you girls can think.”

Throwing him a heated glare, I find my annoyance with him ratchets even higher when the smile he returns is too gorgeous for words. I hate how good-looking this man is. It has to be illegal.

Turning my back on him, I search through the trunk, but for the life of me can’t figure out how to unlatch the floor of it to release the spare beneath. I take a second to scan the car. The latch couldn’t possibly be underneath the carriage, like a pickup truck. The car is way too low to the ground. But maybe.

I tug a soft pashmina from my bag, keeping the folds intact. It’s the best I can do to protect my bare knees from the asphalt while I look underneath the car. And as long as I don’t shift the soft cashmere on the pavement, it should survive the abuse.

“I can’t let you do that,” he says insistently.

I give him the smallest of grins. “You’re not the boss of me.”

When he hops off the hood of his car and takes two long strides toward me, my breath hitches from his closeness. His heat.

“Look, somehow we got off on the wrong foot, and I’m in the sexist zone.”

I step through my rationale. “Let’s see. You leered at my body and said I couldn’t change a tire.”

“Correction,” he says, barely holding in a chuckle. “I leered at your body and said you couldn’t change this tire.”

“That’s what I just said.”

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