Page 5 of Tormented Bastard
If only I felt as confident about Chase’s reaction.
Chance pulled his truck into a short, crushed-shell driveway of a traditional beach style home on stilts. A shiny, blacked-out pickup truck was parked in front. Pulling in behind the other truck, I turned off the vehicle and sat for a moment. Chance got out and let the goat—did he call it Pixy?—jump out, where it promptly walked over to the yard and started eating what grass it could find among the sand.
I blew out a breath and pushed the door open. The heel of my Louboutin sank into the sand when I put a foot on the ground. Shit. I hadn’t thought this through very well. I needed to show Chase I was here for business and only business. And that our last meeting had no long-lasting effect on me.
None at all.
I squared my shoulders and followed Chance as he walked toward the house. The wind plastered my blouse against my body and my hair against the side of my face. I’d enjoy it if my nerves weren’t dancing under my skin.
“Hey, mate! I brought you something,” Chance called out as we walked under the house toward the back yard.
“I hope like hell it’s a six-pack of beer.”
I froze, the click of my heels on the concrete silenced. I hadn’t heard his voice in four years and yet it had the same effect it always did. That deep-timbred rasp caressed my skin like a lover’s touch.
Chance chuckled and squinted up to the side of the house where I could see the bottom of a ladder. “Even better. Bring your ass down here and come see for yourself.”
The ladder creaked and jostled. Work boots hit the rungs followed by jean-clad legs. I nearly swallowed my tongue when that sexy-as-hell happy trail came into view as his T-shirt rode up his chest.
“What did you—” Chase stopped when he looked toward where I stood. His worn and faded baseball cap—his lucky Gators cap—was pulled low, but it didn’t hide the flash of anger in those emerald-green eyes. His hands landed on his hips, back ramrod straight. Those lips—my body recalled just how perfect they had felt on my skin—flattened into a straight line.
“What the fuck is this, Bateman?” Chase’s voice was tight and so icy cold it could freeze all the circles of hell.
Chance looked back and forth between us, rubbing his chin. “This is Eden Mitchell.”
“I know who the hell she is.”
“She said you guys were friends.”
“She lied.”
