Page 121 of Holding On To Good

“Everyone likes ice cream. It’s inhuman not to.” Then again… she slid her gaze over him. The golden hair, the sexy stubble, the gorgeous face and hard body.

Yeah, he fit into that group. Inhuman.

In an entirely too physically perfect to be real way.

Which was why she’d brought Ian along. To act as a human shield protecting her against those extra-strength pheromones Reed tossed around like confetti.

“Do you?” she asked Reed.

“Do I what?”“Do you like ice cream?” Ian piped up because, unlike Reed, he could keep up with a simple conversation.

Reed shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Okay? Okay?

He could at least try to cooperate.

God.

“Do you want ice cream or not?” she asked from between gritted teeth.

He was going to say no. She saw the refusal in his eyes and instead of feeling glad, of being relieved she wouldn’t have to spend time with him, a sense of disappointment washed over her, undeniable and inexcusable.

But then something in his gaze shifted. Changed. And that relief did come, but for a very different reason than it should have.

“I need to wash up first,” he told her.

She felt like smiling in triumph, maybe doing a tiny victory dance, but was pretty sure this was not an event she should be wanting to celebrate.

“Sure. Yeah, okay. We’ll just wait.” She gave an inner groan. Well, of course they were going to wait. What else would they do? Rotate a few tires? “Outside,” she added quickly. Jabbed a thumb toward the garage door in case he wasn’t sure which way that was. “We’ll wait outside.”

Reed scrubbed his hands with the nail brush hard enough to take off every inch of skin, but it was useless. His hands never got clean. Not completely. There always seemed to be grease staining his palms. Oil under his nails. Scars and scratches on his knuckles.

It’d never bothered him before.

Not until today.

Not until he’d thought about putting them on Verity Jennings.

Tossing the brush aside, he rinsed his hands. What else was a guy to think about when a hot girl showed up in a pair of cutoffs and a white tank top stretched to the limits by her impressive rack? Christ, when he’d slid out from underneath Sally Weber’s Toyota he thought he’d rolled straight into his favorite fantasy.

If she’d had on high heels, he would’ve been a fucking goner.

He was a fucking goner, he corrected, wiping his hands dry on the sides of his jeans. She’d made him stupid, standing there in the middle of the dirty garage looking so squeaky clean. So untouchable.

Then she’d started yammering on about taking him out for ice cream.

Like they were thirteen and going on their first official date.

Complete with chaperone.

He should have said no. Wasn’t sure why he hadn’t.

And that was what made a girl like Verity dangerous.

She messed with a guy’s head. Screwed up his brain. Made him forget all the reasons he should steer clear. Made him start to believe he could have something good and pure.

It was bullshit.

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