by Nicole Snow
“Hey,” I say, bumping my head against her shoulder. “You okay? You want to scream? Break something?”
“Nothing left to break,” she says wryly. “Looks like they got it all.”
“Rat bastards,” I hiss. “I don’t know how you can be so calm.”
“I guess because getting angry won’t undo it,” she says.
“No, but getting angry feels real good sometimes.” I search her face. “You really don’t have a clue who did this?”
There’s a pause, giving something away, before she shakes her head. “Nah. Probably some assholes joyriding through town, thinking I’d be easy pickings.”
Assholes joyriding through town don’t come prepared with ski masks and crowbars, though—but I keep that part to myself.
I can’t help watching her, wondering what she’s not saying.
“You sure?” I ask. “You went kinda funny back there. Is something up, Fel?”
She gives me a strange look, like she has no idea what I’m talking about—but then looks past me and arches a brow. “Your boyfriend’s looking at you.”
I actually flinch. More out of surprise than anything else, hearing it out loud.
Boyfriend.
Holy crap.
I know what we are, technically. I just feel like the town’s latest soap opera after that dramatic scene with Sally Jenkins. Now everyone’s waiting for the drama that’ll break us up.
I look over my shoulder.
I can’t help it.
I know Felicity’s diverting me like she always does. She doesn’t let people get past the surface.
But bring up Holt, and it’s second nature to look.
He’s standing under the café’s outside canopy in one of the few areas that isn’t covered with broken glass.
He’s talking to Blake intently, Holt gesturing with his hands in jerks that catch my eye.
His hands are big but graceful, like they’re made for hard work—sculpting raw granite and marble into works of gorgeous art or wrenching metal into fine filigree sculptures.
Maybe he doesn’t do anything that fancy, but there’s a style I’ve noticed on the sites he’s built, this detail and craftsmanship that turns something rugged into something as elegant yet strong as the hands that made it.
And Holt’s such a hand talker, always gesturing to make his point. It’s a second language adding another dimension to his words.
While he’s talking to Blake, he’s glancing at me.
Intently. Deeply. And it’s not those hot, wicked gazes he gives off when we’re working around the ranch, either, but it doesn’t mean there’s no heat in it.
Here, it’s more like warmth.
Heat and warmth may seem pretty close, but let me tell you...
When a man’s looking at you like he’s reaching deep down to caress your trembling heart and watch you sigh with all the gut-clenching feeling of it?
There’s a hell of a big difference.
I gotta look away before I embarrass myself.
Ducking my head, I run my fingers through my hair.
Felicity cracks another knowing grin.
“He’s not my—well, okay, so what if he is?” I huff at her. “So damn what?”
“Girl, men don’t look at women that way unless they’re thinking about staying.” Fel leans against my truck, watching me curiously, then glances past me at Holt. “Never realized how much he looked like Blake until now. For half brothers, they aren’t much alike on the surface, but there’s something in their expressions.” She smiles slowly. “That’s exactly how Blake looked at Peace, y’know—right before he married her.”
Ahh!
I make a choked sound, and I swear the air temperature goes up some fifty degrees.
Suddenly, I’m boiling.
“Felicity Randall, don’t you dare put thoughts like that out in the wild. We’re just fooling around. Nothing crazy.”
Ha ha, right. I’m such a bad liar.
“Are you?” she asks mildly. “Then why are you blushing like a beet?”
“Because you’re being ridiculous,” I spit.
And because Holt already said I’ve got his heart, and I want to believe him so bad, but I’m scared to admit that to anyone else when they’ll just look at me with pity for being another dumb little girl falling for his wicked ways.
They’ll just look at me like I’m a fool.
For falling in love with him.
Ugh. I can’t think about this right now while we’re standing outside Fel’s livelihood in shambles and one big, threatening, MIA asshole still breathing down our necks.
So I just give her a little shove, and she pushes me back, grinning.
Seriously.
I still don’t know how she’s smiling after the night she’s had.
“You need a ride home?” I ask. “You’re not too shaky to drive, are you?”
“I’m fine,” she promises. “You worry too much, Libby.”
“You’re my friend. I’m gonna worry.” I bite my lip. “Listen, just in case, how about I follow you home in the truck? Never know, they might double back. Or if it was personal, they might’ve hit your house, too.”
There’s the weirdness passing over her again.
It’s like, whenever I say certain things, she’s remembering stuff she doesn’t want to.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to Felicity when she left town.
Ever since she came back, she’s been different.
All those nasty rumors that she was sleeping around with Dennis Bress for money before he passed, and then the close calls with her cousin and an untimely end only added fuel to the fire.
I can’t put my finger on it since I didn’t know her too well before then, but she changed somehow.
And I wonder if this break-in is my crap raining on her parade...or her old chickens coming home to roost?
She only shakes her head, smiling. “No need. I’m fine. But if it’d make you feel better, okay.”
“It would.” I squeeze her arm for a second, then pull away. “Be right back.”
Holt smiles when he sees me coming, leaning in to murmur something to his brother before stepping away.
“Felicity okay?” he asks as I draw closer.
“She’s taking it pretty well, considering. I’d be ready to commit a freaking homicide.” I smile tiredly. “But I’m gonna shadow her home just in case. Make sure she’s safe and locked down tight. You wanna come?”
Holt glances over his shoulder at Blake, running a hand through his thick black hair and ruffling it up. “I’m gonna stay here with Blake and see what I can suss out. He’ll give me a ride back. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay,” I say—before letting out a startled sound as he hooks an arm around my waist.
Holt gets me with that easy strength every time, the way he just casually pulls me in like I don’t weigh more than a feather, pressing me against his tall, firm body, letting me feel every hard edge of his frame...and there’s a lot of hardness to go around.
I make a flustered sound, pushing lightly at his chest.
“Hey,” I protest. “People are watching.”
That just makes the smirk cut across Holt’s face like a sword. He leans down, smothering me in his warmth, raking his scruff against my cheek.
“What, you embarrassed to be seen with me now?” he teases, and I grumble.
“Little bit.”
“You should be. I’m about to get real damn embarrassing, honey.”
That’s the only warning before he covers my mouth with his, silencing my protest.
Nah—more like I lose the will to protest at all.
The second his lips touch mine, I start to go off, all adrenaline and heat, gasping as he parts my lips with a firmness that isn’t one bit shy about stealing into me.
He kisses the way most men fuck.
Slow and hard and deep and urgent.
The way his tongue glides in and out of my mouth makes me remember
him with every single sense—how he smells when we’re sweaty and tangled together, the way his beard rakes against my skin as he licks all over me, the clever circles rough fingers work against my flesh, the taste of his salty skin when I bite his shoulder, the way his eyes gleam in the darkness with heat, need, urgency, the sound of the bed creaking as he surges into me hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall.
God.
Holt Silverton makes me relive all that and more with just the plunge of a deep, needy tongue and his hands on my back, reminding me I’m so flipping his.
By the time he lets my lips go, there’s one more hard thing pressed between us.
Sweet Lord.
If it wasn’t for Felicity and Blake, we’d barely get out of sight before I mounted him right there in my truck.
He does the worst things to me.
I just hope I’m not letting my body override my heart, when his touch gets me so deep for reasons I don’t want to name just yet.
But I feel like the gasps he pulls out of me are speaking those things to the stars above, anyway.
Making it true.
Finally, I can breathe again, our lips parting as I look up at him.
For a hot second, all I can see is Holt against the backdrop of the stars, the sinful beauty of a fallen angel, forbidden and entrancing, his mouth still wet from our bomb as hell kiss.
I gotta talk to him. After tonight. Tell him how I feel.
With a shaky smile, I press my fingers to his lips.
“Save some for later,” I tease, then pull away, my knees weak. “See you back home.”
“Sure, babe,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on me, watching me so close, like a tether stretching between us as I step toward my truck. “See you real soon.”
It’s not a long drive to Felicity’s place.
She lives in one of the town’s inner suburbs—well, really the only inner suburb. Even with all the growth lately Heart’s Edge isn’t much bigger than a postage stamp.
Her little cottage-style house looks clear when we pull up outside. Doesn’t look like the door’s been forced, no windows broken, yard is neat and clean.
I still wait in my truck, headlights flooding her porch, until she unlocks the door and peeks inside.
When she waves back a minute later after a walk-through, giving me the go-ahead thumbs up, I wave, then back out of the drive.
She’ll be okay.
She’s surrounded by good neighbors, and she’s a tough, smart cookie.
She can take care of herself.
But I can’t help but worry over her anyway, playing through wild theories in my head as I head home.
It’s a long, lonely drive.
I remember taking this route with Dad so many times back when I was practicing for my license, or even when I was younger, falling asleep in the seat next to him and hanging on his arm while he drove.
He’d play soft music on the radio, low so it wouldn’t wake me up.
That man was a total sucker for Patsy Cline.
I guess it’s nostalgia that makes me turn the radio on, searching through stations, looking for some oldies. I don’t really expect to find any Patsy, but I get Billie Holiday, and “What Is This Thing Called Love?”
Good question, Billie.
With mellow jazz playing, I let myself sink into the lulling quiet of the drive, just half watching the stars and half watching the road.
It’d be peaceful as hell.
A great way to clear my head.
If only it wasn’t for the grinding sound of engines and the rumble of siding metal.
It’s that highway noise when you’re passing one of those big eighteen-wheeler rigs. Even though the sides of the freight box in the back are made of solid metal, it booms and shakes in the wind over the rumble of its own speed.
That’s what’s coming up on me in a roar, snapping me out of my daze.
I check my mirrors, just as a huge semi-truck comes ripping up the road behind me, veering in from one of the small feeder roads.
It’s speeding like a missile on wheels.
Faster than rigs should go, way over the speed limit, its engine howling like a rabid dog in my wake as it comes charging up at my rear end.
“Holy shit!” I whisper.
There’s barely time to get a bad feeling about this.
I slam on the gas, making my truck leap forward, but I feel like I’m already outgunned.
Being smaller and more maneuverable doesn’t cut it. Not when that thing’s got an engine made for long haul power.
My pulse punches my throat, hot fear-sweat and even hotter anger rushing through me.
I grind down hard on the gas and beg for just a little more speed out of my poor truck. I’m a fighter, but I’m not stupid.
That rig could splatter me like a honeybee.
I just gotta get to the little lane that dips off the road, down the palisades of the highway, toward my ranch.
It’s a tight curve, no way in hell that truck can barrel down it without tipping over.
And it’s less than two miles.
Go, Libby!
It almost feels like Dad’s voice in my head, telling me to get the lead out my ass and floor it.
I lean into the steering wheel, clutching it so tight my hands hurt, punching the gas pedal until the needle creeps up over eighty, ninety, and all I can hear is the gunfire of my heart. Plus the roar of that semi creeping up like a hungry bear, so big its shadow falls over me.
No headlights, either.
He’s driving with them off, and when I steal a desperate glance in the rear-view mirror, I can’t see who’s behind the wheel. But I’ve got a good guess or two.
He’s almost on my bumper.
For a second, we flirt just inches away from a crash, before he veers left.
What the?
Oh, crap.
He’s trying to block me, wall me off before I can make the turn.
I’ve got my shotgun here somewhere. I fumble under the seat, but if I don’t wanna crash, I’ve gotta slow down.
Maybe that’s the smart thing.
He’s pulling up alongside me and won’t expect it.
Yeah.
I don’t slam on the brakes, but I do ease off the gas—and suddenly I’m dropping back while he surges ahead with a grinding of gears. A split second later, I risk dipping down to feel around until I find the holster and rip my shotgun out.
I jerk myself back up, propping the barrel on the steering wheel, blowing my hair out of my eyes as I take aim and—
And nearly knock my own dumb teeth out, slamming my head on the window as the semi angles over with all the grace of a hippo and slams into me sidelong.
He’d fallen back, too.
In the flash it took me to get my gun, he’s taken me by surprise.
Now the inside of my cab crunches inward with a metallic squeal, my head bouncing off the window in an agonizing thwack!
The shotgun skitters from my fingers and drops down between the dash and the passenger seat.
Crap, crap, crap.
With a cry, I grab at the steering wheel.
My gut lurches and twists as the truck goes up on two wheels, then crashes back down.
I just barely wrench the whole damn thing away from the shoulder before it can plunge through the guardrail and into the valley.
Breathing hard, I take a second to orient myself.
My poor truck’s limping. I can hear its front axle squealing, and I’m having to fight to keep it in a straight line.
But that semi’s still running alongside me, going a hell of a lot smoother—it’s like swatting a fly with a flipping tank, and as the whole rig goes easing over to the left, my breathing just stops.
Bastard’s gearing up to do it again.
He’s gonna hit me harder, and this time I won’t be able to stop him if he slams me over the guardrail to God knows where. This is almost like what happened with Warren and Haley Ford when they to
ok down that drug lord—except the one man who could save me doesn’t even know what’s happening.
My heart turns over.
Terror becomes my state of being.
Thing is, I’m also too pissed off to die like this.
No, I’m not gonna make it if he hits me again. But I’ve got a few more aces up my sleeve.
Before he can wrench his semi over like a wrecking ball again, I slam on the brakes and swerve my truck to the left, cutting over behind him as I drop back.
I was gonna let him cut ahead of me while I did a swift U-turn and hauled it back to town. Only, I didn’t count on my truck’s age catching up with it, plus whatever damage he did from nailing me the first time.
One of my front tires just pops right off.
And that’s the end.
I’m dropping down in a sudden twisting jolt, sparks flying and metal screeching, the truck starting to spin while my tire goes bouncing merrily away.
Hissing, swearing myself blue, I wrench the wheel and hit the brakes as hard as I can, forcing the truck to a halt with its ass fishtailing across the road.
It finally swerves to a stop, completely blocking the highway.
Up ahead, the semi’s brake lights flash neon red.
Crap crap crap crap crap.
Diving down, I grab under the seat until my hand lands on the smooth barrel of the shotgun.
Snatching it up, I kick the driver door open and tumble out, then duck down behind the bed, using it as a shield.
That semi’s coming right at me, charging like a bull.
I brace my hip against the rear wheel guard—discover one of many bruises in the process, ow—and prop the shotgun’s barrel against the edge of the truck bed, bracing as I take aim.
I still can’t quite make out the driver’s face, but I can see enough to shoot his windshield out.
And if that’s not enough to slow him down, I’ll run.
Straight down the hill, into the brush, get myself out of here.
I’m no coward, but I know when to stay smart to stay alive.
Breathing hard, every sense ratcheted up to a thousand, I lay my finger on the trigger, letting him get closer and closer...
Until I realize he’s slowing down.
Until his engine quiets, then stops, easing to a stop just a few feet away from the side of my truck.
Swallowing hard, my entire body prickles with nerves.
