1
Annabelle
What a shithole, I think to myself when I step out of the police cruiser. The whole town looks flat, like it’s been stepped on. It’s also the same dingy sandy color as the miles and miles of desert surrounding it that I just drove through to get to this forgotten little armpit of a town.
“Right in there! Rowan’s the man to ask for. He’ll get you sorted, miss.” My chauffeur, Pat, who’s actually the local chief of police, smiles warmly and leans over the passenger seat. “I know it ain’t much, but Silvervales’s a nice little town. Mable’s Diner up the street a tick has the best goddamn chicken and waffles you ever did taste. If you’ll pardon my language.”
Wonderful. I’m trapped in an apocalypse-movie-set of a desert town with a broken-down car. And the big attraction is disgusting diner fried chicken and fucking waffles. I almost want to ask the chief if he’s aware of how long I’ve gone without carbs, but I skip it.
“This is the place?” I look back up at the grungy facade with the four open garage doors and the lettering cut out of metal above them that reads “Iron Horse Bikes.” Inside, the place is littered with tools and metal, with one car lifted up high with no wheels on it, and another next to it on the ground with the hood open. A couple of motorcycles are parked to one side. It’s dirty, it’s sketchy looking, and it brings a sour look to my face.
“Yep!” Chief Creesh pipes up again. “They’ll get you fixed up in no time. And while you wait, don’t forget to get a taste of those—”
“Chicken and waffles, yeah,” I mutter. I scowl and look back into the dingy garage.
“Atta girl! Well, if you need anything, you just come on down to the station.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “And thanks for the ride.”
It’s the one freaking lucky break I’ve gotten all day. When my car broke down on the stretch of highway about ten miles from here, the first person that happened to drive by was a cop, thank God. Looking around at this crummy little town, I realize just how easily it could have been some grubby townie named Bubba, or any other number of creeps that lives out here in the middle of fucking nowhere.
“Anytime, and you take care now. Welcome to Silverdale, Miss Chisholm.”
He drives away, kicking up dust and sand and making me cough as I frantically wave my hand away from my face. I look back at the garage, and I scowl. This whole trip has gone from bad to worst case scenario. That’s really saying something, seeing as I was on my way to fucking rehab.
Well, not really. Okay, yes, I’m actually supposed to be going to rehab right now, but not to actually do anything. I’m not a drug addict or anything, and I don’t mean that in a denial sort of way. I mean I’ve literally never taken drugs before. However, when your dad is a high-profile governor and running for a high-profile U.S. Senate seat, and pictures of you at a college party with cocaine on the table in front of you are about to go public, guess what happens? Yep, rehab. Preemptively, in anticipation of the pictures leaking, even if it’s just for show.
That’s life with my dad’s campaign. It’s all about “the optics,” as his PR person Jessica is always saying. Obviously, the optics of a nineteen-year-old daughter apparently spending her time at college doing coke and partying it up are not good at all. Publicly, the plan is to take the allegations face on, and the whole thing will be deemed a family matter that he’s going to throw himself into addressing. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never taken any drugs at all in my life. Denying the picture will just make it look worse. So, off to rehab in some crazy expensive place in the Hollywood Hills, for “the optics,” At least, that was the plan before my car kicked it on a deserted highway in the middle of Arizona.
I can hear rock music playing as I step into the disgusting and dirty garage. But the place is empty. I frown, my sour mood getting worse as I step over greasy car parts and look around the garage.
“Hello?” I scowl as I step around to the back of the raised-up car. Still no one. “Hello?” I yell a little louder. My temper is rising, and I’m already so fucking over this shitty little town that I could scream.
“Does anyone fucking work here!”
“Yeah, I do.”
I almost scream at the deep, gravely, manly voice behind me. I whirl, and my eyes drop to the pair of boots sticking out from under the car on the ground that I apparently missed. Big, grungy, boots. The dirty saying of “you know what they say about guys with big shoes” pops into my head for a second. But I scowl those thoughts away with a roll of my eyes.
“Well, can you service me please?” I snap.
A second goes by before the man under the car begins to slide out, apparently laying on this little rolly thing. Boots, and then dirty, ripped jeans, and then for a second, I see abs—crazy defined, ripped abs. The man slides out more, and then I can see the edge of his undershirt pushed up above his muscled stomach. Big hands reach out and grip the edge of the car, and then bulging biceps as he slides himself the rest of the way out. Suddenly, my breath catches as his face slides out. Because dear God, the man is freaking hot.
He’s absolutely beautiful, and it hits me instantly like a slap to the face. Dark, tousled hair, two-day stubble on his defined jaw, and a set of sexy blue eyes that captivate me. His jeans and undershirt are grubby and torn and streaked with grease. So are his tattooed, muscled arms and those big hands. But all it’s doing is making him even hotter. My mind wanders, and I imagine those dirty hands moving over my clean, pressed clothes, making them filthy with his touch. But I quickly shake those disgusting thoughts away.
“You tell me, sweetheart,” he growls in a low, rumbly baritone. “How do you need me to service you?”
I feel the blush hot on my face. I scowl harder in hopes that it hides it. “I need my car fixed,” I snap.
The man raises one brow and looks around the shop. He sits up and then stands, every muscle in his body rippling as he stands tall and looming above me. He’s easily six-foot-something and built like a freaking tank. I tremble, and my cheeks continue to burn as my gaze moves over him. The grease-streaked undershirt might look grubby on any other man in the world. On him, it looks sinful.
“You missing something?”
“Excuse me?”
“I said are you missing something?”
“Like?” I say testily. Hot or not, I am so not in the mood for anything but getting back on the road right now.
“Like a car, sweetheart.”
My lips purse. I glare at him. “It’s broken down, out in the desert.”
“So, you need a ride and a tow.”
“Yes,” I hiss. The guy arches one brow again, looking amused. I roll my eyes. “Yes please,” I mutter.
He grins, and it’s infuriating and hot at the same time. “Not from around here, are you?”
“Gee, what gave it away?” I mutter.
“That brat attitude, for one.”
I scowl up at him. “You know what? This isn’t how you treat customers. I’d like to talk to your manager instead.”
His smile widens, and he shrugs. “No problem, sweetheart. Sit tight.”