Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
"Pop the hood," he rumbles. His eyes are narrowed on me because obviously, he thinks this has something to do with me neglecting the care of my car. With a sigh, I pop the hood. He pokes around, looks at things that I have no clue about because I'm not a car person, and he scowls and shakes his head.
"Hey, my service stuff is up-to-date, okay? Don't start judging me, buddy."
A brisk wind has kicked up, and I'm cold. I rub my bare arms. It was a warm day that's quickly faded to overcast and chilly, and I'm kicking myself for not bringing a sweatshirt or sweater or something.
He looks at me curiously. "Why did your mind go there? Why are you thinking that?"
"Because earlier, you were saying shit about me not taking care of my car," I say with a shrug. "I mean, obviously, right?"
He bends over the hood of my car, and a lock of hair falls across his forehead. I want to brush it off. I want to tell him he doesn't have to do this because I would feel shitty if he got grease on that perfectly white shirt. But I'm too mesmerized by the span of his large hands on each side of my car, the way his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and the memory of how he handled my mother with such perfect ease.
Oh, Vadka.
"I'm not checking in on how well you cared for your car, Ruthie. I'm checking to see if someone has fucked around with it."
For the past years since my sister was married into this family, I've only been tangentially related to them. And now this is the first time I'm realizing that the life Vadka—and even my sister—lead is so vastly different from mine.
Yes, I've given them information when I found it. Yes, I've befriended the family, but I can't ever remember wondering if someone fucked around with my car.
What does this mean? I remember going shopping with Mariah, and she would have bodyguards. I remember the little red light flashing on her phone, indicating that Vadka was tracking her location at all times. I thought it was a little much, a little over the top, and I never really understood what was going on.
But I'm starting to understand now.
I rub my arms again, and it does little to warm me up.
"Put my jacket on," he rumbles, jerking his head at a leather jacket strewn across his seat.
No. I don't want to put his jacket on. It will smell like him and be all warm and leathery, and it's so fucking intimate, and I'm not in a place where I welcome intimacy. Not now. So I shake my head.
"I'm fine."
His eyes flicker to mine, and I wonder if he's going to push the issue, but he only shakes his head and goes back to the car.
"Well?"
"I think it's your starter. I don't see any indication that anybody fucked around with it. Yet.”
"So we will call a tow truck or—"
"No. I'll have Matvei come pick it up. He'll take a closer look. You'll ride on the back of my bike, and I'll take you home."
What does "home" mean? Does he mean he'll take me back to his house, the Kopolov family house? Or back to my apartment?
Does it matter?
I need to get out of here.
“You’re not driving this,” he growls.
I open my mouth to argue.
“Not negotiable.” His voice is steel. Final. Not just because he’s in control but because he cares in that brutal, infuriating way that makes me want to both scream and melt all at once.
And goddammit, why does that make me feel safe?
So I do the only sensible thing. I nod my head and agree. Still… “But I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”
His brows quirk up. “Really? It’s easy. I’ll help you.”
I'm not even sure my sister ever rode on one either. She was terrified of motorcycles and hated that he drove one, but finally caved when she saw how much joy it brought him. He has one of those thick, sturdy ones, and it's so fucking beautiful, all shining black and silvery chrome. I run a finger over the black edge of a tire and don't realize he's watching till the corner of his lips quirks. He wipes his hand with a rag.
"Where did you get that?" I ask him.
"I keep them with me," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
I keep lip gloss in my purse, and he keeps rags on his motorcycle.
All right then. Fine.
Why is it so sexy watching him step back from the hood of the car and wipe grease off his big, manly hands? His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, his collar undone, revealing tanned skin and tats.
Okay. All right.
Time to pull myself together.