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“Wow, bitter much?” Emily said, grabbing onto Jeremy’s arm. “Why don’t you just admit that you’re angry that Jeremy’s with me and not you?”
Charlie had to count to three, because really, even she wouldn’t hit a pregnant woman.
“Let me be real clear so that there are no misunderstandings. I have no desire to get friendly because I don’t like either one of you all that much. Jeremy and I have a past and some of it was good but a lot of it was crap. I don’t think I realized how much of it was crap until this very moment. And you know what? I’m done with crap.” She slid past them, tossed her jacket over her shoulders. “I’m done here.”
Charlie strode out into the cold winter air and headed straight for her truck. Tossing her purse and jacket inside, she fired up the engine and let it warm up. Leaning back into the worn leather seat, she began to shiver, teeth rattling against each other like hollow bones.
The radio came to life, a sultry Chris Isaak song, and as the haunting strains of Wicked Game filled her truck, she squeezed her eyes shut. Outside, the wind howled and her chest tightened with each blast. It was early, barely ten. She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to stay at this dance. Heck, she didn’t know what she wanted.
Or did she?
A damn tear slid down her face—in spite of her anger—and her eyes flew open, hands now gripping the steering wheel. She’d been good inside. Hadn’t caused a scene. Not really. She hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true.
She exhaled and glanced into the rear-view mirror. Pale blue eyes stared back at her, wild auburn hair falling into them.
She was done waiting for something good to happen. Done being a person she didn’t recognize anymore. Reliable and hard working were admirable qualities for any person, but when had dull and boring become Charlie’s thing? She needed to be the person she’d been before her world had imploded. Wh
en the hell had she stopped being a fighter?
Charlie slammed the truck into reverse and skidded out of the parking lot. As she headed out of town toward the McLaren place, she finally found the focus that had eluded her all evening. She was done being good, done taking crap, and if she didn’t tell someone off she was going to explode.
So, Rick-whoever-the-hell-he-was thought he could blow her off with some sad excuse that was obviously a lie? Without consequence? No way.
No way in hell.
Chapter Seven
Maverick had just finished a slice of pizza when someone pounded on the door to the shop. What the hell? He’d been trying to get some work accomplished, but truthfully he’d done more drinking than writing.
He was the typical country song cliché.
He glanced at his watch and frowned, noting that it was nearly ten-thirty. It was a Saturday night. He was out in the middle of nowhere. No one knew him. So who would be knocking at his door?
Setting down his beer, he rose from the leather sofa, careful not to knock his Gibson onto the floor. Sheets of music were scattered everywhere, along with more than a few empty beer bottles and a half a slab of pizza left in the box.
He had a bit of a buzz going on, was bare foot and dressed in an old faded pair of Nike track pants and nothing else. He hadn’t shaved in days but then again, it’s not as if he’d expected company.
The pounding intensified and he thought he heard a voice but it was hard to tell with the howling wind. He strode to the door, swearing when he nearly tripped over a couple of cables on the floor, and yanked it open.
Any words he had stalled at the back of his mouth because surprise stole them away. Long strands of dark auburn hair snaked into the wind and the pale eyes that he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind stared up at him.
The rest of her came to him slowly, like fine wine that you sipped and savored and enjoyed. And man, he was enjoying the view.
He saw creamy shoulders that were toned but delicate, shown off to perfection in a slinky black top that clung to round, firm breasts. Round, firm breasts that heaved as she dragged in a gulp of air. Jesus, were they gonna fall out?
His eyes slid lower, falling onto black leather pants that fit her hips like a second glove and—holy hell—the kind of come-fuck-me-boots that would make any man weak at the knees.
A gust of wind hit his bare chest and he shivered. Christ, she must be freezing.
“Are you listening to me?”
Charlie’s voice finally penetrated the fog in his brain and Maverick took a step back, but as it turned out, it wasn’t far enough.
Two hands nailed him in the chest—more like cannons—hard enough to rock him back onto his heels and Maverick’s head snapped up.
“What the hell?” he said, watching her warily as she stalked into the room, eyes blazing and that mouth-watering chest still heaving.
“I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to dealing with, Rick whoever-the-hell-you-are, but I’m can promise you one thing—I’m not like any of them.”
