Reckless Hearts
Book #3
by
Copyright © 2016 by Melody Grace
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
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system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products
referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is
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All rights reserved.
OAK HARBOR SERIES:
4.
This Heart of Mine (November 2016)
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This book is dedicated to everyone who keeps their word.
I
pride myself on being a pretty self-sufficient girl: I pay my own
bills, change my oil, and thanks to four years at one of the biggest
party schools in the South, I’m able to down half my weight in
tequila shots and still keep it together well enough to thank my host
kindly and take off my makeup before passing out. Whatever comes my
way, I can usually handle it with some smarts, a little charm, and if
all else fails, a flash of cleavage doesn’t hurt either. I’m
a modern woman, hear me roar.
But
even my best lace bra (worn today for extra luck) can’t help me
now: stranded on the street in the middle of the city trying to break
into my own car.
Central
locking doesn’t care about charm.
“C’mon,
baby,” I beg, trying the door handle again, but it doesn’t
budge. My old beat-up Honda would have given up the goods with just a
thump in the right spot, but no, I had to go and trade up last year
to this shiny new model with AC, mp3 player, and all the bells and
whistles. Sure, now I can make the drive into the city without my
hair falling into a limp, humid tangle, but I’d take bad hair
in a heartbeat if I could hit the road and get back home tonight.
I
need this day to be over already.
I
sink against the car, shifting my weight to ease the pain in my Power
Shoes, aka the three-inch heeled pumps that pinch around the toes,
but make me feel invincible for a big meeting. I needed all the good
luck I could get today; I was pitching for what could have been the
biggest real estate listing of my career—a big new development
of beach houses just outside my small town—but somehow, even
with the shoes, and the lucky bra, and the twenty-page proposal that
I polished until it shone, I still walked out of that boardroom a big
fat failure.
I
can still taste the defeat. I spent weeks playing phone tag with the
CEO to even get the meeting, and weeks more honing my proposal to an
irresistible package. But after all that, the smug guys at the head
of the table barely even looked at my file before giving me a fake,
insincere smile.
“We’re
looking for someone with more experience to lead the sales.”
Experience!
I’ve sold more real estate in Oak Harbor than anyone, but just
the way he sneered at me said he would never take me seriously—not
compared to the big flashy companies here in the city who think that
expensive ad campaigns can make up for real local knowledge from
someone born and raised right there in town. And if that wasn’t
bad enough, while I was busy drowning my sorrows with a consolation
drink at the bar down the street, someone decided to lift my bag from
the back of my seat. I only took my eyes off it for a moment, but
that was long enough. Goodbye wallet, farewell phone, adios car keys.
They
had to steal my damn car keys.
I
blink back tears, determined to keep my mascara intact, if nothing
else. I’m stranded on the street with sore feet, no big new
deal, and zero way to get home tonight. Could this day get any worse?
An
ominous rumble of thunder sounds. I look up at the dark evening sky,
thick with rainclouds.
Really?
C’mon!
I
take a deep breath and try to figure out what to do next.
Think,
Delilah
. No money
means no cabs or even a bus home, and I’m four hours from Oak
Harbor, so even if I could get to a phone, remember a number, and
sweet-talk a friend into coming to pick me up, I would still have
hours to kill in a city without a dollar to my name.
That’s
OK.
I try to stay
upbeat.
You can be
resourceful.
The
cute pencil skirt and silk blouse I’m wearing don’t leave
much room for break-in tools, but I pinned my hair up this morning in
a neat French twist and fastened it with—ta da!—an enamel
hair pin. I yank the pin out, crouch down, and try to jimmy it into
the lock. This kind of thing looks easy in movies, but when I wiggle
the pin around, nothing happens. Hmmm, just a little further—
The
car alarm blares to life in an ear-shattering siren.
No!
Passers-by
look over, giving me suspicious glares. I can’t exactly blame
them, crouched here poking at the lock. I frantically jimmy the
hairpin again, and finally, the alarm shuts off.
Relief.
I
sink down to sit on the edge of the curb in defeat. So much for
invincible.
Maybe
you’re not the hotshot you thought you were.
“Do
you need any help?”
A
voice makes me lift my head. A man has paused on the sidewalk,
looking down at me with concern.
A
hot, gorgeous vision of a man.
I
blink. He’s got dark hair and smoky hazel eyes, standing tall
and broad-shouldered in a crisp button-down, suit, and tie.
Clean-shaven, strong-jawed, and utterly
delicious
.
“Umm,
no, I’m fine.” I scramble up, smooth down my skirt, and
manage to flash him a smile. “Thanks, but unless you moonlight
as a car thief, I’m not sure you can help.”
He
raises an eyebrow quizzically. Damn, he’s hot.
“I’m
locked out,” I explain, nodding to the car. “Someone
stole my purse earlier, so I don’t have my keys.”
“Tough
break, I’m sorry.” The guy pulls his phone from his back
pocket and offers it to me. “Do you want to call someone?
Triple A?”
“Thanks,
but I live hours from here.” I give a rueful smile. “And
I’m pretty sure I let my membership lapse.”
He
grins back. “So basically, you’re screwed.”
I
laugh, surprised. “Basically, yes.”
“We’ll
see about that.” He walks over to the car and crouches down,
examining the lock. “Hmmm . . . I guess
we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Do you have
anything sharp or pointed?”
I
pass him the hairpin, watching in surprise as he studiously begins to
shimmy the lock. He looks so clean-cut and business-like, not the
kind of guy who bends the rules. I’m so busy admiring the way
his pants stretch over his ass, I almost forget what happened when I
tried that trick.
“Wait!”
I exclaim. “Watch out for the—”
The
alarm sounds before I can finish warning him, deafening at close
range. The handsome stranger quickly shuts it off again. He
straightens up, but instead of bidding me farewell and leaving me to
my fate, he rolls up his sleeves over tanned, muscular forearms.
“Time for Plan B,” he says, sounding weirdly upbeat. “I’m
going to need some kind of wedge, some kind of hook or wire, and some
gum.”
“You’ve
done this before?” I drag my graze away from his sexy arms.
“No,
but I watched a guy who did.” The man flashes me a smile. “My
sister locked her keys in when we were out in New Jersey. Luckily, we
were right across from a construction site. This whole parade of guys
came over to help. They’d seen the cops do it, at least, that’s
what they all said.”
I
laugh. “Of course they did.” I look around, and spot a
convenience store on the corner. “OK, well, I’ll see what
I can find. And thank you,” I tell him, sincere. “You’re
really helping a girl out here.”
“Don’t
thank me just yet.” He grins. “I’m Will, by the
way.”
“Delilah.
I’ll be right back!”
I
head towards the store, realizing too late that I have no money or
credit cards. I don’t want to go back and ask Will for cash,
not when he’s being so generous with his time, so I step into
the store and fix the teenage clerk with my biggest smile. He blinks.
I flutter a wave.
His
jaw drops.
OK,
so maybe my bra will be lucky today after all.
Five
minutes of sweet-talk later, I emerge with everything Will needed: a
door-stop wedge, a wire hanger, and a pack of Wrigley’s
spearmint gum. I even took a moment to straighten up in the bathroom
and made sure I don’t have car dirt smeared all over my face.
After all, you never know if your knight in shining armor will happen
to be single and available for a date sometime . . .
“Got
it.” I arrive back at the car to find Will checking his phone.
I pause, realizing he might have had other plans tonight than hanging
out on the street planning a break-in. “If you need to be
somewhere, I’ll be fine on my own,” I add, but he tucks
the phone away.
“Nowhere
better. I just wrapped up my appointments for the day. Besides,”
he adds with a mischievous glint to his grin, “I want to see if
this actually works.”
“Nothing
like a little light breaking and entering on a summer’s night,”
I agree.
“Let’s
hope there’s no breaking necessary. Now, let me see if I
remember how this goes . . .”
He
crouches down, and I’m reminded again that those suit pants are
a gift to womankind. “Can you jam this between the door and the
frame?” he asks, passing me the door-stop. I do as he says,
being careful not to scratch the paint, while he straightens out the
clothing hanger wire into a long snaking length with a hook on the
end. “Now, we jiggle.”
“Is
that the technical term?” I tease, as he snakes the wire
through the new gap in the car frame. He angles the wire towards the
lock button on the inside of the door, and I grip his arm in
excitement. “It’s working!”
“Just
a little more pressure . . .” Will feeds the
wire through some more. Closer, closer—
“Ma’am? Sir?”
A
stern voice comes. I turn to find a police officer standing behind
us, hands on hips and a suspicious glare on his face.
“Um,
Will?” I murmur, but he’s too focused on the task in
front of him.
“Just
a second . . .”
“Will!”
I yank his arm. The wire drops to the ground, and finally he turns.
“What?
I nearly had it there— Oh, good evening, Officer.” He
straightens up and clears his throat. “Now, I understand how
this might look . . .”
“And
how’s that?” The officer looks from us to the wire, to
the car, and back again. Before he can react, I step forward and give
him my best innocent “who, me?” look.
“This
nice gentleman was just helping me out with a little car trouble.”
“Is
that right?”
“I
went and got my purse stolen, isn’t that silly of me?” I
flutter my eyelashes, hoping this stern cop is as easily swayed as
the convenience store clerk. He doesn’t seem impressed. “It’s
my car, honest. All my registration information is in the glove
compartment.”
