Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Jesse came back with a steaming cup of coffee and held it out to me like it was a dead body.
“Leave it on the hood.”
My greasy hands were busy plucking the scissor jack and placing it under the frame rail. Being an only child to a single mom, I’d learned how to do everything short of performing open-heart surgery by myself. I could change all of Jesse’s tires and make okroshka soup from scratch while she filed her fucking nails. Right now, I needed her to see that she could trust me. She was still staring at me, bewildered, like she, herself, had no idea why she was letting me help her.
Then, as if to confirm my suspicion, she blurted, “Why are you helping me, again?”
“I wanted coffee.”
“You can afford coffee.”
“How do you know that? Do you have laser vision that goes straight through my pocket and into my wallet?” I grunted while lifting her spare tire. Couldn’t she have a little fuck-me-missionary-style Mini Cooper like all the other rich chicks in town?
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
I hope not, because it’s either from being a beach bum or the unofficial town whore.
I looked up at her, wiping my forehead and smearing grease over it in the process. “Do you?”
“You’re Roman Protsenko.” She rubbed her worried forehead, and there it was—the look of sheer fear and disgust.
My heart beat faster, even though it shouldn’t have. I reminded myself that I didn’t care…only I did, because I’d already spent some of Darren’s money. “So you do know who I am. What do you make of that?”
“I make nothing of that. It doesn’t matter if you’re the pope or Justin Timberlake. I don’t date.”
“Me neither, so stop acting like I’m hitting on you,” I said honestly. Her spine relaxed a little, and she gave me a curt nod. I had a feeling that was her version of a smile, and I didn’t hate it. California girls smiled like the whole world was watching. Jesse’s movements were private, quiet.
“And what’s your name?” I asked, because I wasn’t really supposed to know.
“No one. Are you done?” She nodded toward her tire.
“Almost, No One.”
I was, in fact, nearly done. But I wanted to prolong her departure, because she was about as compliant as a toaster. I wasn’t sure when the next time I’d see her would be. I also knew that, in some fucked-up, fate-ish way, I wanted to help her. I had a dog in this fight. I knew a thing or two about rape. Hell, maybe that’s why I was such a whore. It didn’t feel right to say no when so many women hadn’t had the choice. Then again, I couldn’t leave Jesse hanging there for hours.
“All yours, Snowflake.” I stood up, wiping the grease on my cargo pants. She nodded, still several feet away from me, pointing at the coffee sitting on her hood, so she didn’t have to come closer.
“Snowflake?”
“Your name can’t be No One, so I choose Snowflake.”
“Is that some political commentary on me?” She narrowed her eyes.
I tried not to roll mine. “No political assumptions here. You just look like a snowflake.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re pasty as fuck.”
Because I found you in the dirt that’s called life, and you stood out. Like an opportunity I cannot miss.
Her gaze flicked to my face for the first time. Her eyes were terrifyingly expressive. The color of the ocean. I realized how corny that sounded, but shit, it didn’t make it any less true. “I…well, thanks, I guess.”
“Wait,” I said, dumping the toolbox to the ground with a thud. “Now I owe you a coffee.”
She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, one that was green and had a hat in the shape of a dick. “That’s not how things work.” She frowned, incredulous.
“Who are you to say how things work?” I parked my hip over her vehicle, squinting under the sun.
“Who are you to say how things work?” She widened her eyes, her anger outweighing her distress.
“I own a coffee shop. I know more about coffee etiquette than you, and I owe you a coffee. Let’s have it tomorrow.”
She grabbed the untouched coffee from her hood, walked over to the nearest trash bin, and threw it with purpose. Then she sauntered to her SUV and yanked the driver’s door open. “There. Now you don’t owe me anything.”
“You still paid for it,” I said, not entirely sure I wasn’t fucking it up, but not having much choice, either. She was a hard nut to crack. I was so used to charming my way into women’s panties, I forgot how to worm my way into their hearts. Normally, it was embarrassingly easy.
I flexed my tatted arms, picking up my surfboard.
Gathered my wild, blond hair into a bun.
Curled my fingers and stretched on a yawn, displaying my six-pack.