Extraits

MILES

The redhead is moving straight toward me but looking backward like someone’s going to come chasing out after her. I try to get the licorice out of my mouth fast enough to tell her to stop, but it’s too late. She barrels into me like a bunny against a brick wall. In the scuffle, her flip-flop gets lodged under my work boot, and with an awkward twist of her ankle, she goes crashing to the ground, her gray satchel flying five feet into the alley.

“Shit, are you okay?” I ask, reaching down to offer her my hand.

Her blue eyes fly wide. “Oh my God. My computer!”

She doesn’t even look at me as she scrambles across the hot asphalt for her laptop bag that landed a few feet from her. Crouched on her knees, she pulls the MacBook out of her bag and opens it quickly. With a sharp intake of air, the redhead finally says, “Not cracked but will it boot?”

After tapping the space bar, the screen alights with a login window. She falls off to the side on her hip and exhales with relief. “That could have been so bad,” she mumbles to herself. “Ugh, this is why I email the file to myself after every session. Rookie mistake!”

“Everything okay?” I ask, approaching her cautiously as she slides the laptop back into her bag. I feel really fucking weird about interrupting the conversation she’s having with herself, but staying silent seems ever weirder.

Her gaze turns to me, and her eyes widen as she takes in the full sight of me. As if she’s only now noticed another human standing right next to her this entire time.

Her eyes slide up my body, taking in my rough, steel-toed work boots and oil-splattered, charcoal coveralls currently protecting my denim-clad legs. I’ve slipped my arms out of the top of the coveralls, revealing the black athletic tank I always wear underneath. My arms have a decent sheen of sweat, considering it’s summer and the shop is not air-conditioned. And let’s face it, some of that perspiration is from nicotine withdrawal.

Her eyes finally reach my face, so I decide to repeat my earlier question. “Everything okay?”

Her brows draw together, and she nods, her nude lips still parted with a dazed expression on her face.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, trying to make sure she didn’t sustain a head injury in our collision because she’s acting super fucking weird.

She shakes her head, so I offer her my hand to help her up. My hot, rough hand grips her cold, soft fingers as I pull her to a standing position. She’s a good eight inches shorter than I am, but at six-foot-four, all girls are small beside me.

She clears her throat. “You…you…work here?” She closes her eyes like she’s mentally chastising herself.

I cross my arms and can’t help but notice her eyes watching my biceps flatten on top of my hands with interest. “I do. I’m a mechanic. Were you getting a service?”

She giggles. She giggles so hard that it turns into a laugh, and then she’s slapping her hand over her mouth to muffle it. Mumbling against her palm, she replies, “Yes.”

I frown and ask, “Then what brings you back here to the alley? Completed cars are parked out front. These back doors are employee entrances.”

Her eyes flash back to the door, and she begins gnawing on her lip. “Right. I, erm…was just…” She eyes the spare strand of licorice I have tucked behind my ear. “Coming out for a smoke!”

My brows lift. Smokers come in all shapes and sizes, but something tells me this luminous, ginger bombshell does not smoke.

“Great, can I bum one?” I ask, calling her bluff.

“Weren’t you just fake smoking with licorice?” she asks, pointing to the half-eaten piece that fell to the ground during the course of our collision.

My face heats. “You saw that?”

She laughs softly. “Before my triumphant fall, yes, I saw something that looked like a puff of make-believe cherry smoke floating all around you.”

I roll my eyes and jam a hand through my short, black hair. “It’s a thing I started doing when I quit smoking three months ago.”

“Does it help?”

I shrug. “Doesn’t hurt.”

“Maybe hurts the ego.” A dimple flashes in her right cheek as she fails to conceal a smirk. “How macho is it to fake smoke candy?”

Is she flirting with me? Or teasing me? I can’t tell, but I can definitely retaliate, and I must admit that her dimple is adorable. I lift my hand to grab the licorice behind my ear and flex and relax so my bicep tightens impressively. “My ego is never in danger, babe.” I pull down the candy and bite a piece off while shooting her a wink.

KATE

Kate Smith. My name is literally Kate Smith. My parents couldn’t even fancy it up and call me Katherine or Katelyn. Or God, if only they’d have named me something exotic like Katarina, my life could have turned out so differently.

Hell, I would have even settled for Katie. She sounds a tiny bit fun. Maybe.

But no…I’m just Kate.

I’m the eldest child in a bustling family of five from Longmont, Colorado. My parents have been married for over forty years and still magically like each other. My two younger brothers went off and married two sisters. The two perfect couples and their precious offspring live within a two-block radius of our childhood home. My parents babysit every Friday night so my brothers can wine and dine their hot wives like the good Christian husbands they are.

And what does boring ole, practically pushing thirty years old Kate do?

She writes porn.

In a tire shop.

In Boulder, Colorado.