Chapter Four
Paisley
" G reat. Just great," I groan, staring balefully at the tire on my car. I don't know what I ran over, but if there's any air left in it, it's hiding. The tire is flat.
I sigh heavily and glance around, hoping for help to materialize, but the only people who ever come out this far are those heading toward the vineyard…and I'm pretty sure the winery closed an hour ago. The restaurant is closed today, too.
"Why didn't I ever let Pierce teach me how to change a stupid flat?" I grumble to myself, reaching inside the car to grab my phone. He and Dad tried to warn me that I'd need to know how to do it sooner or later, but I was too stubborn to listen.
Well, the joke is on me because my phone is dead…and I can't change the tire.
I crane my head back, glaring up at the cloudless sky. "You're laughing right now, aren't you?"
A hawk screams in the distance, which I take for confirmation. Pierce is up there laughing, the big jerk.
I grumble wordlessly, my eyes dropping to my shoes. Why did I wear heels today? Oh, right. Because I didn't expect both my car and my phone to betray me three miles from the vineyard.
This has to be karma for letting Lyra eat cheesecake for lunch yesterday before sending her back home to my pregnant bestie and her baby sister.
Not even the breeze blowing in from the ocean a few miles out helps with the stifling late afternoon heat.
I'm going to die before I make it to the vineyard.
"I gotta get right with the Universe." I reach into the car to grab my purse and keys and then lock up before turning toward the vineyard.
A horn honks behind me before I'm even five feet down the road.
"Oh, thank you, Baby Jesus," I whisper, spinning around to find a truck slowing to a stop behind my car. The relief bubbling through me sinks like a freaking rock when I catch sight of the driver.
Ridley. Of course it's Ridley.
Why couldn't it be someone normal? Like a serial killer? I'd rather take my chances with one of them than with him right now. At least they'd put me out of my misery. The torture never ends with him.
He climbs from the truck, a heart-stopping dichotomy of wild ruggedness and smooth businessman. His hair is a mess. His suit is impeccable, stretched over his muscular frame like silk. And that isn't my womb clenching. I swear it isn't.
"What happened, Dimples?" he asks, sauntering toward me.
"Flat tire," I respond dully.
"You got a spare?"
"Nope."
His lips pull down into a disapproving frown. "What the fuck? Your car didn't come with a spare?"
"It did," I mutter. "I just forgot to replace it."
"Dimples." Disapproval threads every damn syllable of my nickname.
"I've been busy," I protest. It's not a lie. Between graduation, passing the bar, and looking for a job, replacing the spare tire was low on my list of priorities. Real low.
Ridley crosses over and then kneels beside the tire to take a look at it. "Jesus, baby. What the fuck did you hit? Every curb in Santa Maria?"
"I don't know. It made a weird sound and then went flat."
"There are at least five—make that six—nails stuck in this thing, Paisley." He cuts his eyes in my direction. "And you didn't see what you ran over?"
"I already told you I didn't," I grumble, crossing my arms defensively. "I was trying to avoid a turtle."
That's a lie. I was in my own world, thinking about him. But not even Batman could beat that truth out of me. No freaking way.
"A turtle?" His lips curve into an amused smirk as he rises gracefully. "Well, come on, Mother Teresa. Let's get you home. I'll come back for your car."
I flick my gaze toward his truck. "Can't I just borrow your phone to call Oliver? He can come and get me."
"No. He's busy."
"Doing what?"
"Stuff."
I narrow my eyes at him, not buying his bullshit for a minute. "You're lying. I want to call Oliver."
"Too bad. My phone is dead."
"Let me see it."
"Why?"
"To see if you're lying."
"I forgot it back at the vineyard."
"Oh my god." I gape at him, caught in that void between frustration and shock.
You know, the one where you're so mad you want to laugh because if you don't, you might actually strangle someone?
Yeah, that's the one. "You are such a liar.
How do you know your phone is dead if it's back at the vineyard?
And who even goes anywhere without a phone anyway? "
He shrugs like the accusation doesn't bother him at all. "It was dead when I left it there," he lies with a straight face. "And I go places without one. Now, get in the truck."
"No, thanks. I'd rather walk." To prove the point, I spin on my heel, adjusting the strap of my purse across my shoulder. There's no way in hell I'm getting in that truck with him. It probably smells like him, all woodsy and sexy and infuriatingly hot.
I'd rather die walking in these heels, thank you very much.
I hear him following me, but don't bother turning around. My mistake. My huge mistake. Between one step and the next, my feet leave the ground. The world spins upside down. And I'm over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"Ridley, you asshole!" I shriek, using my purse as a weapon against his back. Maybe I hit his fine ass a few times, too. I'll never tell. "Put me down right now, or I swear to God, everyone in the valley is going to hear me screaming."
"Yeah?" he grunts, already striding back toward his truck like carrying me isn't a problem at all. "They going to hear you screaming my name, Dimples? Because I can live with that."
"Not if I kill you first." I try to wrap the strap of my purse around his throat, but it's hard to do when it's still looped over my shoulder. All I manage to do is smack him in the head with it. The purse makes a satisfying thwomp sound when it thuds against his stupid skull.
His amused laughter is less satisfying.
His hand comes down on my ass in a hard smack. "Behave before I drop you. If I hurt you, I'm going to be pissed about it."
"Then put me down." I kick my feet like a toddler having a tantrum. That's basically what I feel like right now. I smack him with my purse again for the indignity.
"Goddammit. Stop hitting me," he growls, his hand planted against my ass.
"No."
"Fine."
The world spins again before righting itself.
But it's not in the order I want because I'm not marching toward the vineyard and away from him.
Oh no. I'm on the hood of my car with him looming over me like a hot, pissed off vintner, and my legs are splayed around his hips. He can probably see my panties.
Before I can push him away or say anything, he swoops. His hand tangles in my hair. His lips crash against mine. He grunts like I'm the best thing he's tasted in years, his tongue flicking at the seam of my lips.
"Let me in, baby," he demands, his voice a gritty rasp.
I mean to tell him no. I want to push him away and slap the taste from his lying mouth. But I don't. I'm too fucking weak for him still. I whimper instead…and I kiss him back.
His greedy growl is almost worth the pain I know I'll feel later. His taste is, too. It's brandy and mint, and it's so fucking good.
He yanks me closer to him, his chest vibrating, his body shaking. He's wild as he kisses me like he's dying to do it, like he can't stop himself.
And I kiss him back the same way. Because I am dying for it.
I've been dying for it for three damn years already.
Time hasn't changed that. Distance hasn't.
Nothing I've said to myself or to him has changed a damn thing for me.
He's still it for me, just like he was at Lucy's wedding.
Just like he was when I slipped my hand into his pants and begged him to make love to me.
"Goddamn, I didn't get it right," he groans, licking into my mouth like he's trying to taste my soul. "There is no recreating this."
I have no idea what he's talking about, and he doesn't give me time to ask.
"I've missed this hot little mouth, Paisley. So fucking much." His hand runs down my body, setting fires and causing landslides. Earthquakes ripple out from my soul, swallowing entire tracts of my being with every heated touch.
And it's not nearly enough. I want him all over me, stamped into my skin like a brand.
"Ridley," I whimper. "Please."
His hand slips beneath my skirt, his fingers trailing up my bare thigh. I gasp into his mouth, spreading my legs for him, silently begging him to go higher, to touch me where I need it most.
His thumb presses against my clit through my panties, and I nearly unravel right there for him. "Does this pretty little pussy miss me, baby?"
"Ridley, please." I'm not even sure what I'm asking for right now. I just know I need it.
He grinds his thumb against me, his eyes locked on my face. "I'm not going to stop until you come all over my fucking hand, Dimples."
Well, thank God for tha–
A horn blares behind us, ripping me from his arms.
I scramble across the hood of the car, my face blazing with heat.
"Fuck," Ridley growls, whipping his head up to glower as his cousin, Gabe, drives by, waving. The smile stretched across Gabe's face says he knows damn well what he just interrupted.
Oh god. Oh, my freaking god.
I slide off the hood of the car onto trembling legs.
"Paisley, baby…"
"Don't," I rasp with a sharp shake of my head. "Just don't, Ridley."
I stumble toward his truck without another word. What am I supposed to say? If Gabe hadn't driven by, I wouldn't have stopped him. I would have begged him to keep going. And when it was over… Well, I don't even want to think about that.
"Motherfucker," Ridley mutters from behind me like he's having the same thoughts I am.
I haul myself into the passenger seat of his truck and then curl up, clinging to my purse like it's the only thing rooting me to earth. He stands in front of my car for a long moment, his head hanging low between his shoulders, before he sighs and jogs toward the truck.