Page 5 of Rough Daddy
I don’t even have somewhere to stay yet, and I’m already racking up a repair bill.
When I picked Wildfire on the map, there were no real plans involved outside of punching in the location on my GPS.
“Follow me,” he says, and starts walking toward the sunshine outside of the car wash bay.
I’ve never made reservations in my life. Never worried about where I was staying on a photo shoot or a staged adventure. My parents took care of all of that. Marla was the one that booked the Coldwater Airbnb.
A gaping flaw in my plan is surfacing. I’m an idiot genius. Or a genius idiot. I’m not sure which.
“Is there a hotel?” I try to sound casual as hot fingers crawl up my spine.
He straightens, stalls his forward motion and I nearly walk right into him. Up close, he's even bigger. Evenmore.
The sun cuts sharp shadows under his cheekbones, and I have the wild thought that he looks like something carved from those mountains I passed not too far back.
"Hotel’s booked," he says. "A couple weddings and some romance writers’ mastermind deal. Our little town gets popular during summer.Old motel's closed for mold remediation." He watches as I groan, pressing my fingers to my eyebrows. "But looks like today’s your lucky day."
"How is any of this lucky?"
His eyes flick up and down, taking in my Kermit green heels, second skin jeans and a white silk tank that's soaked and see-through.
“Just is. You want my help or not?”
The sudden sternness in his voice shakes something loose inside me and I blurt, “Yes, sir."
I want your help and a few other things I don’t want to mention right now.
Sir.
Great. Now the arrogant ass thinks I'm drunk on Fifty Shades of middle-aged women finding their kinky side.
His eyes darken, lines deepen on his forehead, and my insides start to twist.
"Sir," he repeats on an intoxicatingly slow blink.
My face burns as I shake my head. "That was not what I meant to—"
"It's fine." He clicks his tongue in his cheek and I swear to Be-Jezzus a tiny tremor shakes the ground of Wildfire, Michigan. "You’re going with me."
"Where?"
"First, to get my truck. Come on." He starts walking again, and from this angle, I don’t even care where.
You know that sort of walk a guy has where they take a step, and their upper thigh just naturally has this flex andbendthing going on?
It’s not quite a swagger, but like something in their hips moves, and my insides feel like that spicy cheese they pour over chips at baseball games.
I should not follow him. I can wait by my car. This is absolutely unnecessary.
Those are the thoughts going through my head as my feet move without my approval. Heels clicking against the concrete, feeling ridiculous and small and strangely safe all at once.
This is insane.
Kit would drag me by the hair back to the car. Marla would livestream an intervention. But here I am, trailing after a man who looks like he uses a cheese grater on his knuckles as a hobby.
There's probably a lifetime movie about a girl like me. Opposites attract. City girl meets…what is he exactly?
He’s not country really.
