Page 36 of The Bad Girl List

“Your house?” she asks.

“Yeah. It’s just behind these vineyards.” I gesture with my chin.

She’s so petite, I can hold her with one arm. I open the door to my truck and set her inside.

I return for her sketchbook and pencils. As I gather them off the ground, I realize she’d been drawing my truck and my dog. This realization does strange things to me. Of all the picturesque things to sketch at the winery, she chose my three-legged dog and my ancient truck, probably the two most unpicturesque things in a five-mile radius.

“Tequila!”

My dog hobbles out from under the truck. At my gesture, she clambers into the front seat and settles herself on top of Dom’s feet.

Tequila likes Dominique. Tequila, who shakes at the mere sight of any human who isn’t me. Tequila, who growls and snaps at anyone who gets close to her. She likes Dom. This unsettles me in a way I can’t explain.

“Wait, is this your dog?” Dom asks. “Is this your truck?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you a Moretti?”

I nod. “This is our family’s winery.”

For some reason, this makes her blush a deep crimson. “Oh, God.” She folds in half, resting her forearms on her knees.

I’m too worried about the blood crisscrossing her body to ponder her strange reaction. I drop her things onto the seat between us, then throw my truck into drive and pull onto the dirt road leading back to my house.

CHAPTER 11

First Aid

DOMINIQUE

The realization that Trevor is a Moretti is nothing short of mortifying. What sort of dumb luck is this? He even ordered his own wine at Zeke’s last night, but I’d been too drunk to put the pieces together.

Thank God he will never know about the wine label design that got me fired. I’m sure his father picked one of the clone designs and loves it. I’ve seen plenty of clients thrilled with clone designs in my two years at Presidio.

I am dripping blood everywhere. I do my best not to make a big deal of it, even though I want to shout at Trevor to drive faster.

I pick at the little shards of glass poking out from my skin, setting them on my lap so as not to get blood on Trevor’s upholstery. Although it would probably blend into the worn, cracked leather that’s already covered with the stains of a long life.

The three-legged dog–Tequila, Trevor called her–is nestled over my feet. Her dark eyebrows move back and forth on her white face as she alternates between looking at me and looking at Trevor. Her tail thumps a few times.

“She’s never chewed through her leash before,” Trevor says. “Where did you find her?”

“She was hiding under the truck when I came around back. I didn’t notice her at first, but when I sat down and started to draw, she came out.” I recall the frightened, curious eyes watching me from beneath the truck. “She seems a little jumpy.”

“She had a hard life before I adopted her. I normally wouldn’t leave her tied up in the back of my truck, but the tasting room was short staffed today. I can’t leave her alone all day because she’ll chew at her feet and make them bleed.”

“Poor little Tequila.” Having picked out the biggest chunks of glass, I lean over and stroke her head. “Hard life, huh? Don’t worry, if Trevor was my dad, I’d chew my feet too if he left me.”

I don’t even realize how strange that last sentence sounds until Trevor chuckles. I am reminded that I’m in the car with a Moretti. Not just any Moretti, but the guy I tried to screw in a bar parking lot. The same guy who also witnessed me become a puking princess.

I had no idea this level of mortification was possible. The gnomes in my head are going to town with their pick axes.

Trevor pulls to a stop in front of the most adorable bungalow I’ve ever seen. It has shingled exterior walls and dark blue trim. He drives the truck under a carport and comes around to open the door for me.

“Oh, hell.” He knots his hands in his golden hair as he takes in the tiny cuts oozing blood all over my arms, stomach, and chest.

“I think it looks worse than it is, but we’re going to need a pair of tweezers to get out the smaller pieces of glass.”

---