Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (15 page)

“Lock…that’s a lot of money in repairs.” I swallow hard. “How’d you get it all done so fast?”

“I had it towed last night. Soon as you walked away, I called a tow truck and had the mechanic start right away. Just told him to fix everything that needed fixing. They must have worked late and started early.”
 

“I’m paying you back. That’s too much.”

His eyes cut to mine. “The hell you are.”
 

“I’m not a fucking charity case, Lock. I don’t need your help or your money, and I’m not fucking you just because you’ve been nice.”
 

“Not because I’m nice, no. But you will.” This in that same low purring growl.
 

I slam my foot on the brake. “You know what? Get out of my truck.” We skid to a stop, dust skirling in through the open windows. “Thanks for fixing it, that was very kind and very unnecessary. Goodbye, Lachlan Montgomery.”

“Hey, I was just—”

“You were
not
kidding, so don’t try and pull that on me. That may work on bar sluts, that smirk and the purr, but it’s not going to work on me. So get the
fuck
out.”
 

“Smirk and purr?” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “You think I purr?”
 

I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Jesus. You don’t take a hint, do you? LEAVE.”
 

He stares at me levelly for a long moment, and god it’s hard to resist the siren song in those blue-green eyes. But I do, somehow.
 

And he gets out. Snaps his fingers. “Utah, c’mon girl. Let’s walk.”
 

Happily, the dog bounds out of the bed and walks beside Lock, tail wagging, happy just to be.

God, to be a dog.
 

I watch them walk.
 

He totally deserved it.

Bonus reason I kicked him out is because it
was
working and that pisses me off, confuses me, and sends little thrills into my belly all at once.
 

The road is straight as an arrow for a good couple of miles, so I watch man and dog slowly shrink almost out of view.

But damn it.

Damn it.

I can’t let him walk all that way. It’s hot as hell out there.
 

“Goddamn it, Niall. What are you doing?” I ask myself as I throw the truck back into drive and go after them.
 

What am I doing?
 

I don’t have the slightest clue.

Go all in just to lose again

Jesus, I’m an asshole. A complete and total douchebag of the highest order.

I
hit on her.
Multiple times. Openly. Brazenly. Worst of all, clumsily.
 

Not because you
’
re being nice, no. But you will.
Who says shit like that to anyone, much less…
her?
I’m here to explain why I’m here, not to hit on her.

Problem is, I don’t really know
why
I’m here.

When I stopped to help her move her car, I obviously had no idea who she was, only that she was a small woman trying to move a large truck. I’m an asshole, a douchebag, a fuckboy, a lazy wastrel, a scoundrel, a playboy, a good-for-nothing, spoiled, rich, trust fund brat. But I
can
be a gentleman. I do have
some
redeeming qualities. She was tiny, in those fucking green scrubs and that goddamn white lab coat, pushing this thirty-year-old pickup, or trying to anyway, and failing. Horns going off, no one helping her. Traffic piling up, as far traffic goes in a podunk shitsville like this.
 

After she unequivocally sent me on my way I pretended to drive away, then swung around the block and watched her walk away, sipping that soda and popping a waffle fry now and then. Dragging her feet. Obviously exhausted. So I stopped by her truck and noticed the pool of gasoline beneath it, leaned down and saw it dripping from the fuel line.
 

And hell, why not? I’ve done little enough for anyone but myself in my life. Might as well begin this whole turn-a-new-leaf part of my life by doing a random act of kindness for the poor woman. She wasn’t poor; I don’t mean that in a financial sense. She had a Coach purse, and the shoes on her feet were fairly pricey orthopedic footwear for someone who is on their feet all day. Had manicured and painted nails, although she was clearly due for another appointment.
 

Shut up—spend enough time around rich vacationing tourist bitches, you get to know when a girl is in need of a manicure; she’ll tell you, for one thing. Sleep with one too many times in a row; she’ll want you to pay for it, too.

Well, not all of them.
 

Sweeping generalizations are old Lock, so I have to put the kibosh on that kind of thing.
 

I rub my forehead with a knuckle, regretting the way I acted.
 

I want to tell myself I couldn’t help it; see a hot as fuck woman, try to score. It’s ingrained.
 

And god, Niall James is fine as all hell. Not just “fine” or “hot” or “sexy”, though, but genuinely
beautiful.
Audrey Hepburn. Rita Hayworth. Vivien Leigh. Marilyn Monroe. That kind of beautiful. In her scrubs, dark circles under her eyes, so tired she looked ready to drop but still bulldogging on despite it, she was stunning. Thick brunette hair in natural spirals swept to one side and pinned in place. No makeup, loose scrubs…I couldn’t look away.

And then, just now, in the house. The way she answered the door? Fuck me running, I nearly had a heart attack. Immediate priapism. I’m still rocking a semi, and getting hard thinking about the vision: thin, old, faded hunter green babydoll tee, the hem riding millimeters above her snatch, creamy thighs I’d love to bury my face between. And that shirt? Jesus. Thin and faded, god, gloriously faded, just enough that I could almost-but-not-quite make out the dark silver-dollar-sized areolae and the buttons of her nipples. C-cup breasts, I’d guess. Big, a little more than a handful—and I’ve got big hands. Round, firm, taut. And when she turned and ran into her bedroom? The tiny little shirt rode up, baring that ass.
 

Woman’s got ass for days, and I do mean that in the very best possible sense. Juicy, heart-shaped, thick and perfectly round. Slappable. Pale, creamy skin, like she’s got all over, but on that ass…oh god. I could slap it and it’d pink up perfectly, slap it hard and there’d be a good jiggle to it.
 

No makeup, hair a curly, tangled rat’s nest. Frizzed, messy, bursting in a halo around her face. Confused expression. Those cheekbones, those cheeks. Those lips? Plump, biteable, kissable. Throat like a delicate ivory carving. Long fluttering eyelashes.
 

And then she came out of that piece of shit crackerjack box of a house, wearing booty shorts and a thin flannel, unbuttoned just enough, hair brushed and curled to accentuate those natural ringlets, makeup.
 

I saw my future flash before my eyes.

I’ve seen my past flash in front of me, a still-frame montage of all the stupid, amazing, crazy, idiotic, daring, incredible things I’ve done in my life.
 

But for as many times as I’ve cheated death, I’ve never seen my future flash before my eyes.

And that…

That is freaking me right the fuck out.

I was relieved when she kicked me out of her truck.

Because, yeah, she’s all curves and classical beauty. She’s one hundred percent sophisticated, elegant beauty—if sophisticated elegance wore shorts that cupped a perfect ass, just barely long enough to not be too short. She’s perfection in female form, and I’d claim to be a bit of an expert on that subject.

Yet all that being true, what really had me going was her tongue. That acerbic, biting tone, the way she doesn’t take any shit whatsoever. Fearless. Bold. A little vulgar. Calling me out on my shit.
 

Kicked me out of her truck, deservedly so.
 

I ruffle Utah’s head between her ears, and she glances up at me, tongue lolling out, loping beside me without a care in the world. “I messed that right up, didn’t I, girl?”

Woof!

“Yeah, I mean, we both know I’m a fuck-up. But that was a fuck-up of the highest order.”
 

Ruff!

“What would I do differently? Everything. Stay on the other side of the door. I mean shit, I don’t even remember going in. Who goes into a stranger’s house uninvited? Especially when she was very clearly not quite awake yet, and half-naked to boot.” I run my hand through my hair, pissed off at myself in the worst way. “I’m such a goddamned idiot, Utah. Remind me to act like I have any manners whatsoever next time, okay?”

Yip!

I laugh, because if I talk to Utah, she always answers.
 

Makes me feel less alone in the world, which is nice.

But then she stops, cocks her ears, twists her head to look behind us; there’s a cloud of dust, Niall’s truck at the heart of it. I feel my heart start thumping harder, feel hope burgeon inside me. Maybe I’ll get a second chance at this.
 

What “this” is, I’m still not sure.
 

I should work on that.
 

The two-tone, short-bed Chevy—I don’t even
like
country music, so why do I keep thinking in terms of country songs?—grumbles to a halt, dust billowing around Utah and me.
 

Niall leans back in the cab, wrist on the wheel, her other hand out the window. “Get in.”
 

“Listen, Niall, I owe you an apology—”

“Yeah, you do. Get in and do it, though, because I’m hungry and you mentioned brunch.”

I glance at my watch. “I think the breakfast portion of brunch is long past, at this point, seeing as it’s after one. So let’s call it lunch.”
 

“Fine, whatever. Just get in.”

I look at Utah, lower the tailgate. “Get up there, girl. Let’s go for a ride.” Utah gives a bark, and then leaps up onto the tailgate, which I close behind her.
 

I get in, work on how to phrase this, because apologies don’t come easily to me.

Apparently I wait too long, because Niall shoots me a withering look. “You mentioned an apology?”

I sigh. “Yeah…I was a dick. I’m sorry.”

She eyes me expectantly. “And?”

“And what? I’m sorry.”
 

“That’s a shitty apology. You should at least say what you’re sorry
for.
”

“Um.” I frown and tug on my beard. “I shouldn’t have hit on you like that. And I shouldn’t have walked into your house. Or mentioned your tits. Or…well, I apologize for the whole scene, basically,” I say, waving back at her house.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” She’s laughing at me, I think. That’s a good sign.

“No, I’m not. I don’t usually apologize.”
 

“Even when you’re acting like a mannerless horndog?”
 

“Especially then, since it’s sort of my natural state.” I shake my head side to side. “At least, it used to be. I’m trying to…update my operating system, shall we say.”
 

“I don’t know what that analogy is supposed to mean.”

I wave my hand in circles; I hate this conversation. “Turn over a new leaf. Start fresh, clichés like that.”

“Oh.” She eyes me, and her eyes are soft green streaked with brown. Unusual, and hypnotic. “Why?”

I hesitate. A little too long, probably. “Uh, well…? That’s a long story.”
 

Niall is focused on the road, rather than on me. She taps the steering wheel with a middle finger, then the ring finger of her left hand.

She’s still wearing her rings, both of them, the engagement ring and the wedding band.
 

Jesus.
 

That cuts me right to the core, to the gut. To the bone. To the heart beating in my chest, the strong, steady, powerful heart that belonged to this woman’s husband.

And then, as I’m reflecting on this, she blows out a breath, as if she’s let something weighty go. “Well, I do have the whole day off.”
 

Goddamn it.

I need to tell her.
 

It’s why I traveled all the fucking way down here to Ardmore goddamned Oklahoma.

So why does it feel so hard to just…say it?

I came to life when I first kissed you

His entire demeanor shifted the moment he saw my wedding rings. One look, and he went all morose.
 

I wonder what that’s about? Thinking his chances of getting me in bed are worse, now that he thinks I’m married? Shit. Am I still married? I couldn’t bear the thought of not wearing the rings. I tried. The day after the funeral I took them off, but then promptly had a panic attack and put them back on. Haven’t taken them off since, except for showers. I can’t. I just can’t.
 

I flatten my palm against the steering wheel; angle my hand so the sunlight glints off the diamond. It’s not a huge diamond, because Ollie was never exactly flush with cash; a half-carat, at most, princess cut and set in white gold. It was a symbol, more than anything. I didn’t want a massive diamond anyway, because that wasn’t the point. The real treasure was Ollie. His love. Being married to the man who made me complete. Being married to the man who understood me, who accepted me, who pushed me to be a better nurse every single day. The diamond was just the symbol of me being his…so how could I take it off? I’ll always belong to Ollie.
 

But here I am, in Ollie’s old truck, with another man.

And I’m thinking about that man, that someone who is not Ollie.

I’m being forced to accept that I want to spend time with him. He’s compelling, larger than life, gorgeous, mesmerizing, fascinating. I want to know more. I want to know the meaning of that faraway look he gets in his eyes. What lies behind the fleeting darkness I see in his eyes?

I want to know what the sudden shift in his mood means.
 

He apologized. He
apologized.
Even when he knew he was wrong, when he knew he’d pissed me off, Ollie never actually apologized. He’d say that he knew he’d fucked up, and he’d try not to do it again, and could I please forgive him? But he’d never actually said the words “I’m sorry” or “I apologize.”