Part 125 (2/2)
Nate. He isn't the man I thought I knew, even when I convinced myself I understood him. The deeper awareness of what created the guy he became, and his fears over intimacy, revealed my own fears and together we work through it all. The insecurity we carry plays off against each other, occasionally in a bad way but most often in a heightened understanding, because we recognise each other in a way n.o.body else can.
This complicated, beautiful man re-discovered a heart big enough to share with both Josh and me; and although some days he struggles, the fact he's honest about this gives hope for the future, one Nate repeatedly says he wants to spend with me.
Whatever this is, and wherever we go, we're Nate and Riley, the names as natural together as they were to everybody before we ever acknowledged this.
More than that, we're us. A little bit messed up, and a lot the same, but anch.o.r.ed together in a determination to conquer ourselves the way we did each other.
The End * * *
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Summer Sky (Blue Phoenix #1) Sky changed her life for a man once, and she has no intention of doing it again - even if he is a six foot, tattooed rock G.o.d who makes a mean bacon sandwich Sky Davis is fed up with boyfriend Grant taking her for granted and when she comes home to find him wearing a girl, Sky suspects the relations.h.i.+p is over. She takes an unscheduled holiday and leaves the life (and guy) she hates behind.
Rock star Dylan Morgan is struggling with fame and infamy, sick of his life being controlled by other people. Dylan cuts his hair and walks away from his role as lead singer of Blue Phoenix, leaving chaos and speculation behind.
Outside the English seaside town of Broadbeach their cars and worlds collide.
Chapter One.
You know that moment when you meet someone, only to discover they're the most arrogant, self-important a.s.shole who you've had the displeasure of colliding fates with? Somewhere, on the edge of my normal life, this just happened to me.
Three hours driving non-stop from Bristol to Broadbeach, and I'm in a c.r.a.ppy mood. This trip would take three hours if every traffic cone in England wasn't blocking the motorway, therefore forcing all the cars into a 'traditional English traffic jam'. Or if I didn't get stuck behind the slowest tractor in the world, after I had the bright idea of leaving the motorway for country roads to speed things up.
I whined when I was dragged to Broadbeach on summer holidays with my parents as a teenager, every time. At that age, the quiet seaside town was the armpit of the universe and no longer the sandy playground by the beach I loved as a little kid. There's no place I'd rather be now, than the small house on the edge of the dunes. When I finally b.l.o.o.d.y get there.
Frustration mounts as the afternoon grows late, and skipping lunch to get away from Bristol as quickly as possible hasn't helped. I took a wrong turn thanks to my stupid decision to take a short cut, and I'm lost on a narrow country lane looking for a road sign. So when a fricking dog runs across the road in front of me, I'm not exactly calm about the car behind rear-ending mine when I hit the brakes. There is one screech of tyres, one exchange of alarmed looks between the black and white dog and me, and one loud metal crunch.
I glance in the rear-view mirror. Some guy in sungla.s.ses hastily puts down his mobile phone and starts gesticulating in a way that demonstrates he's as happy about the collision as I am. Like this, is my fault? I throw open the door and slam it closed. Heading to the back of my small, silver car, I'm aware of his scrutiny as I inspect the damage. Great. There's a broken light and a b.l.o.o.d.y huge dent.
I turn to his. I know nothing about cars but I'm sure this is going to cost him more than me. Sleek, black some-kind-of-p.e.n.i.s-extension prestige vehicles like this costs more to fix than my I-have-no-money-and-a-c.r.a.p-job ten-year-old hatchback.
The guy remains in the car, so I stomp over and indicate he should lower his window. The tinted windows seem a bit excessive in the English climate, but I guess this adds to the image of the car. All I can see of the man is dark sungla.s.ses and spiked brown hair, with his hand waving at me to stand back. I huff and back away.
Out of the car steps a guy with an att.i.tude as big as the dent in my b.u.mper. He doesn't speak, but his body language indicates an apology isn't coming anytime soon. Six feet of tightly drawn muscles and a hard set mouth. I'm immediately drawn to the sleeve of colourful tattoos disappearing under his greying black t-s.h.i.+rt. Why do people get so many tattoos? They're plain ugly when there's so many they merge into one canvas of colour.
I s.h.i.+ft my gaze to his face. His sungla.s.ses remain in place, and I can't see much beyond his sharp jawline and the fact he really needs a shave. My first impression is he's trying to cultivate some s.e.xy, edgy image to match his s.e.xy, edgy car. The guy whips off his sungla.s.ses revealing bright blue eyes circled by tired black marks. The looking rough is more than an image then. I figure he's in his twenties like me, but his exact age is difficult to tell beneath the exhausted face.
Without a word, he stalks to the front of his car and rubs the dented paintwork, sucking air through his teeth. Flakes of silver paint from my car drop to the road. I take the opportunity to size him up. He's grungy in an attractive way; or the way attractive people can be as scruffy as h.e.l.l and still look okay. He looks more than okay. I'm momentarily distracted by how his dirty jeans hug his backside but blink the image away.
”It's your fault if you ran up the back of me,” I inform him.
”You stopped without any indication!” he retorts, straightening and turning back to me. His accent is odd English but as if he's lived overseas too long and lost part of it.
”A dog ran out in front of me.”
He looks into the road. ”What dog?”
”The dog's not here now. I don't think the dog realised it needed to be a material witness and ran off!” I narrow my eyes at him and he deliberately looks me up and down. I'm wearing a short floral summer dress. Hardly s.e.xy, but his scrutiny makes me feel exposed. I cross my arms over my chest.
He hesitates, tapping his fingers against his teeth. ”I wouldn't normally do this, but I'm in a hurry. Forget the insurance, I'll give you the money. How much do you think it'll cost to fix your car?”
Do what? ”I don't know.”
c.o.c.king his head, he studies the car. ”Not much, I think. It's an old model. Was the paintwork that bad before I hit you?”
Cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.d. ”I'm not taking your money. Repairs might cost more than you have! If you give me your name and number, we can sort the insurance out the proper way.”
He laughs. ”Very f.u.c.king clever. Do you think I would?”
I'm taken aback at his att.i.tude and language. ”Swapping details is a strange and ancient custom which occurs when d.i.c.kheads on mobile phones rear-end the car in front.”
For a moment, he looks as if I slapped him across the face, and he's rendered speechless. I mentally clap myself on the back. If he can afford a car like this, I bet people in his life rarely call him a d.i.c.khead. At least not to his face anyway.
”I don't give people my personal details.” As he speaks, he scrutinises my face and something in his ocean blue eyes p.r.i.c.kles the back of my neck.
Oh, I see, turn the smouldering on and get me eating out of your hand. Forget that, buddy; men aren't my favourite species currently.
”What makes you so special?” I snap.
A slow smile spreads across his face. ”Nothing, what makes you so special?”
He traps me in a well-practiced seductive gaze, accompanied by the grin sharpening his stubbled features.
Not going to work... ”Do I have to call the police?”
His brow tugs together and he responds with a sharp. ”No. Wait. Okay.”
As he turns and goes back to his car, my heart rate picks up. s.h.i.+t. Maybe he's a drug dealer. Or has a body in the car. And he's got a gun. And he's going to shoot me. Or maybe I watch too much CSI. Time to leave.
I attempt to memorise his number plate as I jump back into the driver's seat. Jamming the car into gear, I take off as fast as my not very fast car will take me. Through my mirror, I see six feet of muscled, tattooed, blue-eyed hotness (possibly with a gun) watching me drive away.
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