Page 2 of Rough Daddy (REAL DADDIES: Boone Brothers #5)

Two

Tessa

I’m four hours into the upper part of the mitten state where, believe it or not, there are mountains.

Okay, they aren’t the Swiss Alps. They aren’t snowcapped. But they are mountains. My intermittent phone signal can attest, and I’m not complaining one bit. The barbed wire bands of tension are loosening, like my life can’t intrude here unless I choose to let it in.

A complete reboot has its advantages, for sure. If it wasn’t for Ethan, I’d go full on witness protection never to be heard from again. He will give me shit about jetting without talking to him, but the darkness that was pushing in around me called for drastic measures.

When you start to consider how accurate the recipes for stopping your heart with a few household chemicals might be, it’s time to put yourself first.

A rust-orange '97 Dodge Ram is parked sideways in a grassy field to my left, like it hasn't moved since Y2K. To my right, laundry hangs from a line stretched between a cheerful yellow cottage and a towering pine.

Wildfire looks like a postcard that got left on the dashboard too long.

In contrast, the do-it-yourself car-wash up ahead looks straight-up curated. The cinder blocks are painted in glossy red, white and blue. A clean neon sign in the center of the roof flashes ‘Always Open’.

My car is a wreck. It deserves better, and so do I, but there will be time to find a hotel, or motel, or please, God , at least some sort of glamping spot when I’m done.

Forward planning wasn’t exactly on my agenda when I closed my eyes and picked Wildfire by poking my finger on the map.

I pull into the little cinder block wash bay and step out onto sun-slick concrete in Louboutins that are at least four seasons ago, but they’re one of my favs: horrible bright green, like Kermit, with a pointed toe and gaudy gold zippers zig-zagging up my calf.

My mother tried to throw them away twice.

Scanning the unfamiliar landscape of a DIY carwash, I note a vending machine for air fresheners and dash wipes. Next to it, hanging on a hook, is a hose that looks like it might bite, and there’s a strange sweet fruity scent in the air of what I assume is the soap.

I shove a five-dollar bill into the machine. It clicks on, and the hose on the wall spurts to life.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

A month ago, my parents would be here with me, explaining how to hold the wand and how to get the best light onto my face.

But this is what I want. I want to experience life without all the set-up.

I squeeze the trigger on the handle. The hose kicks back like a shotgun and practically topples me onto the wet cement. I squeal, drop it, and soak the front of my shirt.

I nod at the challenge. “This is how it’s gonna be?"

I retrieve the crazy Super Soaker, teeth grinding, and blast the car. Mud flies off in ribbons. I feel like I'm scraping something off myself, too. That layer of shame. Of lies. Of curated captions and filtered smiles.

Before I know it, I’m smiling, wielding the crazy squirt gun like a weapon.

I hold the trigger, blasting the car so hard the cover on the charging port pops open. It takes a hit from the spray gun before I regroup, re-aim, then reach over and pop it back closed.

When the exterior looks marginally better, I feel marginally better, too. It’s like, if I can wash a car, then I can do this whole adult life thing, right?

With my shirt soaked and my hair dripping, I hang up the water gun and slip back into the driver’s seat, foot on the brake, push the start button…

“Charging Equipment Fault”

Greeeeeeat. I step back out on a huff, unsure what I’m going to do when a loud electrical popping sound makes me jump.

"No, no, no ..." I groan, clenching my fists, then spreading my fingers. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

I’m smart enough to know how an electric vehicle works, but one little spritz from the spray gun is derailing my hundred-thousand-dollar car?

I wanted a 1973 El Dorado convertible. Gas guzzler. Gold trim. Tacky with a side of fuck-you.

Shocker, my parents vetoed that before I could show them the picture. Bet it would have taken the wash like a man.

“Well, shit on a cracker.” I blow out a long raspberry breath, perch my fists on my hips and spin to open the door and grab my phone from the passenger seat.

The world tips sideways, my ankle folds, stiletto heel slipping on the soapy wet concrete.

“Oh shit!”

Gravity hates me. I flap my arms like a fledgling looking for lift, but I’m heading down. I scream, and then…

Thud.

I don’t hit the hard slick concrete floor. I don’t cut myself, break any bones or even get a bruise. Instead, I’m looking up into the darkened face of a figure that blocks out all the sunlight.

They don’t grow men this large in New York.

He’s got to be at least six-and-a-half feet tall. Dark hair. A jawline that makes right angles look soft.

One shockingly short heartbeat later, I’m back on my feet. His hands detach from under my arms as he steps back and I get a much better... look .

His jeans hang low, frayed at the knees, stained with black smudges. A t-shirt with a simple black ‘X’ on the front is stretched across a torso that deserves its own zip code.

He’s staring at his open hands as though they don’t belong to him.

He drops them to his sides, curling fingers into fists the size of cantaloupes like he’s trying to stop himself from doing something terrible.

He just stands there, like he's deciding whether to defile me or take a baseball bat to my car.

I lick my lips, trying to figure out why my mouth is suddenly like the Sahara. "I, um, I think I’m gonna need a tow truck.”

My eyes keep darting to the front of his jeans where there’s a bulge the size of that aforementioned baseball bat snaking down the leg.

"That so?" he says, rolling his head around on his neck like maybe I’ve just interrupted the world’s most needed nap.

His gaze travels over me, then flicks toward the Tesla.

“Yes.” I roll my lips together, a sudden annoyance putting pressure behind my eyes. “I mistakenly mis-aimed the water gun-hose thing at the charging port and more than likely shorted out the safety override. Do you live around here or are you just stalking do-it-yourself-car-washes as a hobby?”

Heat pinpricks its way up my neck as he releases a sigh, then crosses his arms over his chest, and, Jesus, I nearly go face down at the sight of his forearms.

“You a mechanic?” he asks, his lids lowering as my eyes lock onto the movement of his throat under the dark day-old scruff, momentarily assessing his age.

He’s got to be forty.

That’s…like, nearly geriatric, right?

Then why are my panties taking hits like my vagina has turned on the emergency sprinkler system?

“No. I just…” How do I explain to a man I just met that I’m a freaking nerd?

That the whole Tessa Quinn, influencer extraordinaire thing isn’t me?

That my embarrassing search history is full of dual-clutch transmissions, big and small block engines, torque and F1 gearbox design?

“I know about engines, although, technically EVs don’t have engines,” I end lamely.

The corner of his mouth twitches. It might be a smile. It might be him fighting one. "I own the car wash and the attached garage." He tips his head at the frontage. “I can take a look at it for you. But, parts might be a while.”

"How long?"

"Week. Maybe two."

"What? How much is that going to cost?" I’m flying by the seat of my six-hundred-dollar pants here, and I have no idea what the limit on my credit card is. Or whether my parents might cancel it as soon as they piece together that I’m really gone.

As smart as I am, my parents kept such a tight lid on finances, I’m common sense dumb when it comes to money.

Including making sure when you run away to start an anonymous new life, to bring more than the two hundred and seventeen dollars you had stuffed inside an empty Altoids tin in your console.

I don’t even have somewhere to stay yet, and I’m already racking up a repair bill.

When I picked Wildfire on the map, there were no real plans involved outside of punching in the location on my GPS.

“Follow me,” he says, and starts walking toward the sunshine outside of the car wash bay.

I’ve never made reservations in my life. Never worried about where I was staying on a photo shoot or a staged adventure. My parents took care of all of that. Marla was the one that booked the Coldwater Airbnb.

A gaping flaw in my plan is surfacing. I’m an idiot genius. Or a genius idiot. I’m not sure which.

“Is there a hotel?” I try to sound casual as hot fingers crawl up my spine.

He straightens, stalls his forward motion and I nearly walk right into him. Up close, he's even bigger. Even more .

The sun cuts sharp shadows under his cheekbones, and I have the wild thought that he looks like something carved from those mountains I passed not too far back.

"Hotel’s booked," he says. "A couple weddings and some romance writers’ mastermind deal. Our little town gets popular during summer . Old motel's closed for mold remediation." He watches as I groan, pressing my fingers to my eyebrows. "But looks like today’s your lucky day."

"How is any of this lucky?"

His eyes flick up and down, taking in my Kermit green heels, second skin jeans and a white silk tank that's soaked and see-through.

“Just is. You want my help or not?”

The sudden sternness in his voice shakes something loose inside me and I blurt, “Yes, sir."

I want your help and a few other things I don’t want to mention right now.

Sir.

Great. Now the arrogant ass thinks I'm drunk on Fifty Shades of middle-aged women finding their kinky side.

His eyes darken, lines deepen on his forehead, and my insides start to twist.

"Sir," he repeats on an intoxicatingly slow blink.

My face burns as I shake my head. "That was not what I meant to—"

"It's fine." He clicks his tongue in his cheek and I swear to Be-Jezzus a tiny tremor shakes the ground of Wildfire, Michigan. "You’re going with me."

"Where?"

"First, to get my truck. Come on." He starts walking again, and from this angle, I don’t even care where.

You know that sort of walk a guy has where they take a step, and their upper thigh just naturally has this flex and bend thing going on?

It’s not quite a swagger, but like something in their hips moves, and my insides feel like that spicy cheese they pour over chips at baseball games.

I should not follow him. I can wait by my car. This is absolutely unnecessary.

Those are the thoughts going through my head as my feet move without my approval. Heels clicking against the concrete, feeling ridiculous and small and strangely safe all at once.

This is insane.

Kit would drag me by the hair back to the car. Marla would livestream an intervention. But here I am, trailing after a man who looks like he uses a cheese grater on his knuckles as a hobby.

There's probably a lifetime movie about a girl like me. Opposites attract. City girl meets…what is he exactly?

He’s not country really.

He’s like rural blue-collar sex that you smoke from a crack pipe.

"What's your name?" I call as he picks up the pace and I have to do the tiptoe jog to keep up.

He stops. His ass flexes into steel as he turns with a scowl.

"Beau," he answers as the muscles in his shoulders seem to inflate. “Boone.”

I squint an eye. “Which is it? Beau or Boone? Or is that a nickname or a surname? Like, what is on your birth certificate? Or your driver’s license? Do you file your taxes under Beau or—”

“Jesus.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what? Curious about the identity of a man who says it’s my lucky day, he’s got a tow truck and tells me to follow him?” I nod, eyes wide. “Yeah, I’m always like this in this situation.”

He just stares, blinking as though I’ve just asked him for the secret of the sauce. “Beau comes first. Boone comes second. But you can add that Sir in front of either if it makes you feel better.”

This fucking guy.

“And you?” He cocks his head, a flicker of silver catching at his temples. “Name?”

Panic closes my throat to a pinprick and I hiss, "Tess—" Cough. “Tina. Tina Quincy.”

Wow. My 140 IQ just rolled its eyes. That’s the best I could do?

This man’s sky-blue eyes make me feel like a lump of coal about to turn into a diamond.

He just nods on a grumbling exhale and resumes walking.

And for the first time in weeks, I smile. Even let out a little snort.

I’m pissed off and turned on and completely out of my depth.

But awake. So, freakin’ wide awake.

Look out, world, Tina Quincy’s about to light a Wildfire.