Page 5 of Wildest Dreams

“Sounds like a you problem.” The driver right behind me spat phlegm through his window.

Welp, I’m not in Maine anymore, that’s for sure.

“Unless you wanna pay for it.” The driver gave me an appreciative once-over.

“Sure.” I jutted out a hip, smiling at him sweetly. “Do you accept knees to the nuts and sucker punches?”

“Bitch,” he muttered, rolling his window up on me.

“Mommy!” Gravity shrieked louder. “I wanna get out. Out. Out. Out.”

“Just a sec, sweetie.”

“I want soda!”

Shakily, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket. I couldn’t call Mama or Row—I was desperate to do this on my own. Desperate not to be this needy, flailing, train wreck of a woman who failed at everything she touched.

I called the insurance company instead, my whole body breaking out in hives.

This was a mistake. I should never have come here. Seriously, what was I thinking? I couldn’t even manage my life while I livedwith my mother in my hometown; New York City was twenty sizes too big for me.

I was pacing back and forth behind my trunk, waiting for a representative to answer my call, when Jimmy’s back door flew open. It took me a second to register what was happening. Grav had had enough after the eight-hour road trip, unbuckled her seat by herself, and was now sliding out, falling flat on her ass on the busy road and rolling into the next lane.

“Jesus!” I shrieked hysterically, dropping my phone to the ground.

My daughter rose up on wobbly knees, a frightened expression stamped on her face. She stumbled straight into the moving cars, looking for me through a haunted, terrorized gaze. Seeing my entire life flash before my eyes in the moments my legs carried me toward her, I desperately resisted the urge to pounce on her and scare her straight into the rush-hour traffic.

Suddenly—and seemingly out of nowhere—a tall, broad, thunder of a human scooped Gravity up with one hand, tucked her under their armpit like she was a football, and zipped to the sidewalk to safety.

I dropped to my knees and coughed out all the air trapped in my lungs.

She could have died. She almost did. Because of my stupid lack of attention.

Blinking away the tears, I stumbled toward the figure holding my child. More specifically, the man suspending her by the ankles, gently shaking her body as if she were a newly torn piñata. “Where’s the candy?” His deep, dark drawl rumbled. No baby talk for him. “I know you have some. Don’t play.”

“I don’t!” Gravity giggled, trying to kick the air, arms flailing. “I ate it all on the way here.”

Snitch.

“I suppose I’ll just have to eat you then.”

Another fit of giggles. “Nooo, Uncle Rhyrand. Mommy won’t let you! She woves me!”

My heart finally slowed. I wiped my clammy hands on my sweatshirt, feigning nonchalance as I joined them on the sidewalk.

Them being my daughter and Rhyland Coltridge.

Rhyland Coltridge being my brother’s best friend.

A man-whore.

A cocky bastard who knew he was God’s best creation to date.

A debauched, selfish piece of work clad in a Prada suit.

Too bad that piece of work was a masterpiece.

Rhyland put the “fun” in “dysfunctional.” He was a menace who got a free pass for all his faults through his striking exterior. His princely features included six feet and four inches of bronze, taut, flawlessly muscled body, gold-spun hair the color of an endless wheat field, and eyes as green and bright as the shiniest emeralds. Everything about him, from his cruelly sharp jawline, cartoonishly high cheekbones, and full lips to his straight nose, screamed perfection.

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