Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
“Send me her number and where she’s broken down. I’m walking toward my truck now.” I can’t necessarily say no. Even if Taylor weren’t my boss, I’d never leave a woman stranded on the side of the road, especially with the sun setting over the horizon.
“Thanks, I appreciate it. I’d ask one of the others, but I’ll be damned if I trust them.” Yeah, that doesn’t make me feel any better because clearly I can’t be trusted where Delilah Taylor is concerned either.
“No problem. I’ll have her call you when she’s up and running.” We get off the phone rather quickly, and the time away I’ve had to get my head on straight was all for nothing. I know myself better than anyone—a few minutes in Delilah’s presence, and I’m going to be doing a whole lot more than changing her tire. I’m fucked, well and truly. At least I’ll die with the taste of Delilah on my tongue. The minute Chief Taylor gets wind of one of his employees fooling around with his one and only daughter, shit is going to hit the fan, and I’ll be lucky to come out alive.
Chapter 1
Delilah
Present Day
“Ugh.” The last person I should be thinking about is Fletcher Wild. So what if his touch is permanently seared to my memory? Not to mention his scent. I swear the slightest combination of lemon, cedarwood, and mint, well, my knees are trembling as I’m tossed back into a memory I’ve been trying to avoid.
Maybe if I bury my head in the sand, it’ll keep my mind off the man who pretty much wined, dined, and sixty-nined me on the side of the road after saving me from my flat tire. Fletch did me a solid. He helped me out when no one was around, coming to my rescue like the poor damsel in distress from a princess movie. Only his parting gift was an orgasm of all orgasms. He literally ruined me for every other person, including myself. Yep, even my own fingers and toys are no longer doing the trick. I am absolutely one hundred percent pitiful.
“What did your car ever do to you, sweet pea?” I’ve only just slammed my door shut, looking down at the tire. The tire that got me into all this trouble in the first place. It’s the fault of a massive piece of metal I happened to run over. As much as I tried to avoid the culprit, it was impossible. Oncoming traffic on one side and a ditch on the other meant there was no other choice. Thankfully, there was an intersection coming up once the thump, thump, thump of my tire had me slowing down and driving as carefully as possible.
“It’s more like what it didn’t do to me,” I respond, looking up at my dad. He’s in his standard uniform shirt, badge around his neck, hat on his head, gun at his waist, black denim jeans, boots that have seen better days, and his hands on his hips. The dad pose of all poses. He hasn’t changed much over the years. Dad is a creature of habit and despises all things change. Mom and I make fun of him every chance we get, a man of routine through and through. Even now he’s standing the exact same way as all those funny video clips talking about their dads, only he has a bit of his police chief title thrown into the mix.
“Yeah, your mother mentioned you were stuck having to buy two new tires. How much that set you back?” I grumble. I really don’t want to hear what he has to say, even if he’s right. This is dad’s same old song and dance. ‘You should have bought this car instead of what you’re tooling around in.’ Well, I wanted to be impractical. There was no need for a big, massive, armored vehicle that Dad would prefer his only daughter drive. My two-door Lexus RC 300 about gave Dad a heart attack when I pulled up in the driveway after I finagled one hell of a deal.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” This is the first time in a year I question myself about my fire-engine red car. Tires, oil changes, and routine maintenance on vehicles are absurd, no matter what the make and model of your car is. The up sale they tried to pull on me was of little to no use. I can change my own air filter, windshield wipers, and even put air in my tires. Needless to say, I replaced two tires because of the wear pattern, paid a mint, and saw myself out of the dealership the second I could.
Dad lets out a whistle. “Should have stuck with something easier to maintain, Delilah.”
“How long have you been holding that in?” I’m really not aggravated at the cost of my car. I work hard to afford what I want in life, even if it does set me back more than I’d care to admit at times.