Page 26 of One Night Rendezvous

“You just try to get rid of me and see what happens!”

He hooks his arm around me and hauls me over the console until I’m all but sitting in his lap. “That’s big talk for somebody who got run out of her house by a groundhog.”

“Look here, Chevy … that was a big groundhog. And in my defense, I didn’t know what was coming out of that vent, and I wasn’t taking any chances. Who knows? If it hadn’t been for that groundhog, we might not be sitting here right now, and you might not be in line for the best sex of your life.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really,” I tell him. “That’s your reward for putting a ring on it.” I don’t give him a chance to reply. We could smart-mouth one another all day long and while that’s fun, there are other things I want to do with his mouth.

Leaning in, I press my lips to his, and kiss him like my life depends on it. Maybe it does. I wasn’t living, not really, until I met him—until he opened up and let me into his world. It’s everything I never knew I wanted and damn sure everything that I need.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in the Bellehaven Hotties Series, One Lonely Ol’ Night.

EPILOGUE TWO

Ava

I hate the laundromat. Hate it. It takes me back to my childhood, back to scraping together change so my brother and I could have clean clothes for school, of having to ask people if I could borrow a cup of detergent because I “‘forgot’” ours, when the truth was we couldn’t afford to buy it. I swore that would never be me again, that I’d never be that girl again. And yet, here I am, almost nine o’clock on a Thursday night, dragging in a giant load of drenched bedding because my own dryer picked that night, of all freaking nights, to give up the ghost.

Logically, I know better. The appliance did not have it out for me. It did not break down just to inconvenience me. It’s fifteen years old, bought second hand, and it’s been limping along for the last two years.

The basket is so heavy I can’t carry it. I have to drag it in, but it gets stuck on the threshold. Turning around, I’m bent over, tugging the damn thing through the steel-framed door. A door that I have to hold open with my ass, no less. If there’s anyone in the laundromat, they’re getting a hell of a view because I didn’t bother to change out of my “lounging around the house” clothes. So I’m out here in an ancient T-shirt and a pair of shorts that don’t cover nearly enough of my substantially sized rear end.

I am aware that this is not the best place to be. The only other laundromat in town closed an hour ago. This one is in a strip mall nestled between one of Bellehaven’s seedier bars and an even seedier check cashing place.

The sooner you get this shit dry, the sooner you can get back to your white-bread, suburban condo.

All of a sudden, the weight of the door just vanishes. I look over my shoulder and immediately feel my face heating.

Call it daddy issues if you want, but I’ve always been drawn to older men. Not in the creepy, predator way. Since college, I’ve only ever dated older men. But this guy—he’s not a guy you date. But he is a guy you’d fuck. Holy sweet hell, would I. Dark hair with just a hint of gray, a neatly trimmed beard. He’s wearing jeans and the standard biker gear—black T-shirt, boots and there’s a jacket nearby, I’m betting because he smells like leather.

“Thanks,” I mumble. I’m not doing this. I’m not hitting on some stranger because he was polite enough to hold a door for me. I’m not lusting after some random guy just because he manages to look distinguished and like a badass at the same time. I might want to, but I won’t.

“No problem,” he replies, his voice deep and gruff. A little rusty even, like maybe he doesn’t use it that often. The strong, silent type on top of everything else—he’s my kryptonite in every possible way.

Moving past him, ignoring the desire to either give him my number or just wrap my legs around him, I head to the dryers. After hefting the comforter and sheets into the barrel, I get change from the machine and feed the quarters into the slot. When it starts to turn with a reluctant groan, I give a sigh of relief. It would be just my luck to pick the one broken dryer out of the bunch.

I turn around and realize that me and Mr. Daddy McHotness are the only people in the place. Not good. Well, not good if I plan to be good. And I need to be good. This is my year of change—my year of breaking bad habits and manifesting the stability I’ve always craved and tried to get from other people. It sounds corny even in my own head. Sometimes I think all the psych classes and the counseling degree, while it helps me help others, has just fucked me up more. With that depressing thought, I commit myself to a solid fifty-five minutes of crushing sparkling candies on my phone until my bedding is dry, and I can retreat back to the safety of my condo.

I look around but there are no chairs anywhere in the place, but up by the front window, there’s a long counter that looks sturdy enough to sit on. Heading that way, I have to walk past Him. He’s avoiding looking at me the same way I’m avoiding looking at him. We’re both obvious and it’s awkward as hell. Yeah, it’s gonna be a very long hour.

Forty minutes into the drying cycle, Raucous laughter booms outside. I look up and see a group of men exiting the bar next door. They split up, two going one way across the parking lot and one heading our direction, walking right past the door.

My heart stops. Oh, this is not good. The last time I saw that face, I was testifying in court that he was a danger to his children. Which, to be fair, he legitimately was and is. Wade Bartlett puts the psycho in psychopath—and that’s not just hyperbole. That’s an actual diagnosis.

He’s staring at me, the wheels turning. The moment recognition dawns on his face, the hair on my arms stands up. Two seconds later the door is swinging open and he saunters in. He smells like spilled beer, stale sweat and smoke. He smells like my childhood. All those years of repetitive trauma, of abuse and neglect and poverty and all the horrible shit people said to us and about us comes crashing in on me and I just freeze.

“Ms. Stanfield… I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says. “I kinda figured you’d be a wild one if you ever let down your hair. Not so buttoned up and conservative outside of the courtroom, are ya?”

Even in my half frozen, PTSD triggered state, I can’t forget the HIPAA rules that have been drilled into my head. I don’t say his name. But I’ve pressed nine and one on my phone. “You need to leave.”

His fist hits the door frame in an abrupt movement. “You don’t fucking tell me what to do, you lying bitch. I told you I’d teach you a lesson. Time to make good on that promise.”

Fight or flight manages to break through my current freeze mode. I hop down off the counter and start backing away. There has to be another exit. Barring that, there has to be a bathroom I can lock myself in and wait for the cops to show up.

My hands are shaking so bad I can’t even press the second one. I miss the key and hit the star button. I’m trying to clear it off and start over, as Wade advances toward me, but then someone steps in front of me. Puts himself between me and Raging Bull.

“You still have the option to walk out of here. You touch her, you’re gonna be leaving alright but you’ll be doing it on a stretcher.” The deep rumble of his voice is pitched low and the tone is almost conversational. Like he didn’t just issue a significantly violent threat.

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