Page 42 of Take Me (Cherry Blossom Lake #5)

Hazel

I stare at the pee-soaked stick in my hand, feeling my heart whack the walls of my chest like the housekeeper beating a Turkish wool rug.

Two lines.

I check the instructions again, though there’s no point. It’s the fourth test I’ve taken this morning, all of them yielding the same result.

Pregnant.

That’s what it says, right here in tiny black script. There’s even a diagram, in case my overpriced Ivy League education left me ill-equipped to gauge what two looks like.

It looks like my world spinning out of control.

It looks like the biggest mistake of my life.

It looks like a moment I’d go back and change if I could.

Gripping the stick, I squeeze my eyes shut. I picture the whole thing like yesterday, though it’s technically been more than three months.

Three months, thirteen days, and roughly eight hours and thirty-two minutes.

Shall I set the stage? Sketch out a map to show how I journeyed from pampered ice princess CEO to un-showered floozy wearing her father’s old dress shirt while dunking a stick in a Waterford glass of her urine?

Picture me driving back from FCI Sheridan, wind whipping my hair in my black Mercedes-Benz AMG GT 43. It’s raining a little, so it’s silly to have the sunroof open as I cruise home from seeing my father at Oregon’s federal prison.

But it’s also silly to keep having the same conversations with Dad. His words fill my ears, expanding to an ache that balloons through my shoulders and belly.

“You owe me this, Hazel.” Dad always finds the best words to pierce through my armor. “If my own daughter hadn’t turned on me ? —”

“Stop it!” Squeezing the wheel tight, I ease off the highway and onto the side road that leads to the stupid-huge mansion I live in alone.

That was part of the deal when Dad went to prison. I took over his house, along with the reins of his construction and development firm. Not much of a stretch, since I’ve practically run things since the day I brought home a shiny-new business degree, along with my keen eye for numbers and details.

Suffice it to say, that’s how I found the bread crumbs that led to my father’s conviction for arson and fraud.

“Fuck!” Pounding the steering wheel with a fist, I curse the stupid voices in my head. The ones whispering that I’m a bad CEO, a terrible daughter, a not-so-great human. That I’m destined to end up lonely and rich and rotting as cats eat the eyelids off my well-dressed corpse.

I should get cats.

“What the—” I brake hard, wheels skidding on wet asphalt as I take in the scene at the edge of my property.

A battered blue truck, parked at an angle next to the black iron fence ringing my home on the lake shore. The nose of the truck nearly touches the gate. The bent, crumpled gate that my father kept locked when he lived here.

I never shut it, and judging by the wrecked state of things, I’m not likely to do so anytime soon.

“Son of a—” I stop when I spot him. A broad-shouldered man, on his knees at the edge of the driveway. He’s inspecting the gate with a wrench in his hand, eyes flashing up as I slam on the brakes. “Oh.”

Luke Lovelin.

I know who he is. Luke moved here a few years ago, working as a groundskeeper for his famous brother-in-law while securing a job on one of my father’s construction crews.

His background check showed time spent in prison, not that Luke tried to hide it.

He wrote it right there on the job app, so I sleuthed out more detail before I let Dad sign off on his hiring.

Luke watches me pull to a stop right beside him.

The tool in his hand and his guilty expression leave no doubt he’s responsible for the destruction.

Drawing a few calming breaths, I hit the button to close off the sunroof.

The gentle rain sprinkles have turned to a downpour, a fact that’s abundantly clear as I step from the car and catch a fierce slap of rainwater right in the face.

“Ow.” A wet shank of my waist-length dark hair whips from my chignon and clings to my cheek like a sea snail. Peeling it off, I glare at Luke Lovelin. “What the hell?”

He’s on his feet now, wiping his hands on ripped jeans that look like he chewed out the knees, then dragged them behind his old truck. “What a mess, huh?”

I’m not sure if he means my hair, the gate, my life, or this rainstorm that came out of nowhere. Either way, I’m in no mood to make idle chit-chat.

“I sincerely hope you plan to repair this to its original state.”

Luke tilts his head, tossing the wrench from one hand to the other. “Yes, ma’am.”

For some reason that sets me off. Maybe it’s how the prison guards leer at me every week, calling me ma’am with their taunting lilt of false respect. Their hands drag my body, making the pat-down more of a grope-fest than a safety procedure.

I feel myself gritting my teeth, preparing to let Luke Lovelin have it.

“I also hope you don’t drive this recklessly when you’re behind the wheel of a Spencer Development vehicle.

” Crossing my arms, I stare into his pale blue eyes.

“Surely you don’t need an additional motor vehicle infraction on your record, Mr. Lovelin. ”

My dart hits its mark. I watch those eyes flash with anger. He knows I’m aware of what sent him to prison when he was barely out of high school.

But instead of retreating, he takes a step toward me. “Ma’am.” He softens his tone when I flinch. “ Hazel . Wasn’t me who plowed into your gate. That was Harry Hartman, on his way home from paying a visit to Mrs. Hartman at the old folks’ home.”

“Oh, God.” The blood drains out of my face. “Is he okay?”

“Yep.” Luke doesn’t step back. He’s so close I feel the heat of his breath in my hair. “Checked him over myself and stayed with him ’til the ambulance got here. The EMT says he’ll be fine, but I’ll visit him later to be sure.”

“Shit.” I squeeze my eyes shut, not sure how this day could get worse. “I’m sorry. I just assumed?—”

“That I’m a piece-of-shit criminal who’s reckless and selfish and destructive when it comes to other people’s property?” The snark in his voice makes me open my eyes. “No, wait—that’d be your dad, wouldn’t it?”

Well now I’m mad all over again. “What do you know about my father?”

“I know enough, Hazel.” The soft way he says my name sends a strange pulse of heat through my core. “I also know you should get your sweet ass in the house. No sense in us both getting soaked.”

“But—”

“Go!” He barks the word sharply and I back up so fast I bump into my car. “Get out of my way and let me work.”

Pressing my lips tight together, I try to decide what to do. Should I tell him to leave and I’ll hire out the work? Should I stand here and argue he knows nothing— nothing —about me or my family?

But words fail me for some reason, so I spin on my heels, getting into my car and zipping inside the garage where it’s dry.

I kick off my shoes and pad through the house in bare feet, gathering things I think Luke might need.

An umbrella, a tarp, a bottle of water. A fresh change of clothes from my father’s old things, the dry cleaner’s plastic still wrapped around Dad’s Tom Ford shirt.

I grab some snacks, too, muttering the whole time about men who think they know me. Who boss me around, believing the fact that my father’s in prison gives them the right to treat me like shit.

And yes, I’ll admit I was a jerk to Luke. That’s why I’m stuffing these things in a waterproof bag, then beelining it out the front door and?—

“Ooof.” I collide with a thick wall of muscle.

Luke’s big, gloved hands catch my arms, holding me steady as I spit out a damp hunk of hair.

“Going somewhere?” he asks. Blue eyes pierce mine, making me hyper aware that my top is still damp and a little bit see-through.

“I thought you might need some things.” I drop the bag on his boots as he takes a step into my foyer. “What are you doing?”

“Coming inside to wash up.” Toeing the bag out of his way, he kicks my door shut and points to the powder room off to the right. “That work for you?”

“Yes, of course.” My hands flutter helplessly to my sides. “There’s some dry clothing here and a few tools I found in my father’s belongings.”

“Already got what I need.” He stomps to the powder room and slams the door shut. Seconds later, the water starts running. “Your gate’s fixed,” he shouts.

“Oh.” I glance out the window and wow . “How did you do that?”

“We criminals tend to be good with our hands. All that brawling and fighting, making shanks and lock picks out of chicken bones.” He’s obnoxiously cheerful on the other side of the door.

“Don’t tell, but I might’ve stashed one in your fencepost. Never know when I might need to come back and burgle your house in the dead of night. ”

Asshole.

But he did fix my gate, so I’m grateful. “At least take the fresh change of clothes so you don’t go home soaked.” It’s the least I can do for his trouble. “I’ll leave them out here so you can— oh .”

He throws open the door to stand right in front of me bare-chested and rippling with muscle. Tawny skin shimmers with droplets of water, and a thin, jagged scar snakes from his chest to his hip.

Swallowing hard, I peel my cardboard tongue off the roof of my mouth. It takes all my nerve to meet his eyes. Those cool, shimmery blue eyes like the sea on a sunshiny day. “I’ll, um . .. just leave the things right here.”

I pick up the bag and set it right next to the powder room door. When I straighten I find that I’ve somehow stepped into Luke’s personal space. I’m so close I feel my hand lifting to touch one firm, rounded pec.

No!

I’m just tucking my hair behind an ear, keeping my hands to myself like a good little hostess.

So why is my palm on his chest?

“I’m sorry.” I am, but I don’t drop my hand. What is wrong with me?

Luke looks down at my hand, his lips quirking up. “Sorry for being a bitch to me, or sorry for groping me?”

“I wasn’t?—”

“Don’t.” He catches my wrist before I can drag my hand back. Pale blue eyes lock with mine. “You can flip me all the shit you want, Hazel Spencer. But don’t ever lie to me, got it?”

My mouth feels parched like I’ve spent all day licking the soapstone counter in the butler’s pantry. Other parts of me aren’t dry at all. Not my hair dripping into the back of my green Chloe top. Not my clammy palm splayed on Luke’s chest.

Not the strange, throbbing heat at the V of my thighs.

Licking my lips, I decide to come clean. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’ve had a really bad day and didn’t meant to take it out on you.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“No.” So why do I keep right on talking?

“This morning I woke up and learned that a charity I’ve worked with for more than a decade lost ten-grand to an embezzler.

Then on my way to visit my father, I got a speeding ticket.

My visit with Dad didn’t go well, and right as I left FCI Sheridan, I got a call that investors I’ve courted for months decided to work with a different developer.

On top of all that, all my family and friends keep getting married, which is lovely and joyful, but it all just reminds me I’m alone and haven’t had sex in forever.

Then you show up looking like sin on a stick and I— shit .

” I didn’t meant to say any of that. “Scratch that last part, please.”

“Nope.” Eyes sparking with mirth, Luke brushes stray hair off my face. “But here’s what we’re going to do.”

I open my mouth to retort that he has no right to make plans that involve me. To boss me around like he owns the place.

But the man talks over me, nudging me back toward the wall.

“You want me,” he says, touching my cheek and making me shiver. His fingertips tease toward my ear, tucking another damp tendril behind it. “Which is kinda handy, since I want you, too.”

I sputter as heat floods my cheeks. “You’ve got some nerve! I don’t even know you. And what I do know, I don’t like.”

He laughs like I’ve said something funny. “The way you keep rubbing against me says otherwise.”

I look down and dammit —he’s right. I’ve somehow been grinding myself on the front of his jeans. How did that happen?

Flicking my eyes to his face, I try to retreat. To put distance between us so my skin will stop buzzing.

But the wall at my back stops me from moving away from him. So does the truth in his words.

You want me.

Swallowing hard, I summon the bravest statement I’ve spoken since the day I called Dad’s attorney to deliver the words I knew would convict my own father.

Looking into Luke’s eyes, I square off my shoulders and swallow. “You’re proposing a rage fuck.”

I can’t believe I just said that.

Neither can Luke, from the shock on his face.

But he recovers fast, a smile blooming over his face.

“You can call it whatever you like, darlin’.

” He presses against me, the rock-hard length of him making me whimper.

“You can also tell me to leave right now. Consent’s key, so if I’m reading this wrong, I’ll step back right now and just?—”

I lunge for his mouth, sealing my lips agains his. Luke pauses only an instant, then cups his hands under my butt. Hoisting me up, he presses me into the wall. My legs anaconda around his waist as I grind myself harder against him.

This isn’t me, not any of this.

Not the light, breathy moans, not the fierce way I’m dragging my nails down his back. The whole thing’s a blur of flying clothes and heated growls. At one point, Luke breaks the kiss to ask if we should find a bed.

“No.” I snarl like a tiger with its tail in a trap. “Fuck me here, now. Please .” I add that last word as an afterthought, not wanting to be rude.

Luke doesn’t seem concerned about my manners. He’s peeling me out of my black Amiri jeans, then pulling a condom from his wallet. When he takes his time tearing it open, I snatch it impatiently from his hand and rip at the wrapper with my teeth.

Maybe that’s when it happened.

I was crazed, so consumed by the thick cloud of lust and long-simmering rage that my manicured nails might’ve poked through the latex.

Or maybe I rode him so hard that I pierced that frail prophylactic with the force of my anger-fueled coochie.

That’s the only reason I can come up with for why I’m sitting here now at my dressing table, holding a stick with two little lines on it.

Two little lines set to change my whole life.

Dropping the stick in the trash can, I move to the sink and wash up with Le Labo hand soap. Drying my hands on a thick, Teema towel, I pick up my phone and text one, simple word.

Help.