Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I’m teasing one person, and one person only. So when I look over my shoulder, it’s Wyatt’s eyes I look into first, letting the heat there inspire my next few moves, before I intentionally look over to some other random dude and flash him a wink.
This is the sexiest I’ve felt in a very, very long time. And that it’s because of a Ford is an extra naughty thrill.
Afterward, Aunt Etta slows down the pace at which the pitchers flow to our table, which is probably a good thing. Even as I slow down, I feel a bit tipsy, and I’m glad for the cool night air when we all leave.
Somehow Wren manages to volunteer herself as the driver for Rachel, Winston, and Avery. “I’ll drop Rachel off at the hotel, and then take Winston and Avery to Avery’s house. I’m good to drive home after that.”
Wren lifts questioning brows at Wyatt, waiting to see if he’ll say anything to change those plans. I keep my mouth shut, knowing she’s leaving the two of us here alone together, but not sure how I feel about that yet.
Wyatt says nothing, and a moment later, Wren’s herding her passengers away.
Almost afraid of myself, or maybe what could happen, I turn without a word and start walking toward my car. Wyatt follows, catching up quickly. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Walking you to your car,” he says, his voice a deep rumble in the quiet night. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
“I’m fine.”
I am not fine. Not to drive and not to be alone with him.
“I wouldn’t play you in pool. You think I’m going to let you drive? No,” Wyatt says in a no-nonsense tone. “Not a chance, Hazel.”
No one talks to me this way, least of all guys. They’re usually begging for scraps of my attention. But not Wyatt. No, he demands it, but gives it back just as powerfully. The fire inside me roars, liking his confidence, even enjoying his bossiness, and the ache in my body for more than flirting grows uncomfortable.
“Fine.”
We reach my car and he leans in. For a panicked moment, I think he’s going for a surprise kiss.
Nuts him in the knee! I mean, knee him in the nuts!
My automatic response screams across my brain, but I refrain this time. I don’t want to imagine his balls all swollen and purple later. That’s a definite mood killer, and I’m going to have to take care of this fire inside me.
Dammit. I meant to make him hot and bothered, and ended up doing it to myself too.
But instead of the kiss that I’ve decided to allow, he gently plucks my keys from my hand, and steps back, pressing the unlock button on the fob before holding out a hand. I blink stupidly, then realize he’s walking me around to the passenger side. Tipsy me is a sucker for gentlemanly manners.
With my filters down, I tell him, “You’re nice sometimes.”
He doesn’t gloat, thankfully, but I think he chuckles under his breath. He covers it with a cough, so I’m not 100 percent sure—more like 97.3 percent.
“Where to?” he asks as we walk around the back of the car, his voice gentle. “I don’t know where you live.” Ugh. I’m letting him put me in the shotgun seat of my own car.
“Not going home,” I answer unexpectedly. Not sure where that came from because I was totally thinking about going home and using the muscle-blaster setting on my showerhead to blast my clit. Hard and fast, it’d get me off like a rocket, and probably knock me out for the rest of the night.
“Okay,” Wyatt says agreeably. “Where to, then?”
I turn to lean against the passenger door. “Mom’s bakery.”
Wyatt gives me a very suspicious look. “Where?”
“The Bakery Box,” I explain, being very careful to enunciate each word. “I work there, helping out as much as I can, and she’s extra busy this week with the wedding prep.”
“You want to bake? Now?”
“No, I want to clean,” I retort sarcastically. “Of course I want to bake. It’s a bakery. That’s what you do there. Or are you too good to get your hands dirty?”
“I clean my workshop every day,” Wyatt scoffs. “But you work for Etta and your mom? At the same time?”
“Yep,” I reply with pride. “It’s a family affair. Twenty-four seven, three hundred and sixty-five. It’s what we do.”
Wyatt shivers. “That sounds awful.”
Maybe that’s true for his own family. I think it speaks volumes about the Fords, and gives me a bit more insight into why Wyatt left town. Maybe I can find out why? “Depends on the family.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” he says almost wistfully. Suddenly, he gives me a smile. “Think you could use some help?”
“At the bakery?” I ask incredulously. “I was joking about your hands, Wyatt.”
“I know. And why not?” Wyatt offers. “I promise, despite me being a Ford, I do know how to scrub a pot or use a mop. I can help.”