Page 8 of Pretty Wild

This space and time away from Los Angeles and the dumpster fire that became my life, when it exploded on national television, is exactly what I need.

For one month, I’ll cut off everyone and everything and find out who the real Ryan Marcotte is. Well, except my parents. And my business. Even though I took a small leave of absence, I’m still very much in control of Ryan Holmes Cosmetics.

I don’t need anyone but myself.

I’ve got this.

I just pray I don’t see a spider…

3

MARCUS

Imake sure the tire holds air before lowering the lift. As soon as the SUV is on the ground, I jump inside and slowly back it out of the shop bay. Her scent assaults me instantly. How can a woman who only drove a vehicle a short time have her scent embedded into the seats like this?

Parking the vehicle next to the open shop door, I run back inside and holler at Dale, my employee. “Wanna follow me? I need to deliver this SUV.”

He nods, setting his tools aside and wiping off his hands on a shop towel. I run over to the sink, washing my hands a second time. I always take great care not to track anything into the vehicles I work on, using paper covers on the floor mat and seat, but this one has white leather seats and light brown carpet, so I use extra degreaser soap again. My luck, I’ll leave a smudge of rear end grease on me I didn’t notice and get it all over the fancy interior.

Finally, I climb inside the vehicle and wait for Dale, who rolls down the big overhead door and secures the building. When he climbs into an old Chevy I use as a shop truck, we head toward my cabin. It’s just after nine, and I can’t help but hope I canjust leave her keys under the floor mat. The last thing I want is another run-in with the princess from LA. She consumed way too much of my thoughts last night.

And then a few this morning too.

Not to mention, the moment I pulled her rental into my garage, I’ve been consumed by her floral perfume. It’s like I’m surrounded by rose bushes, trapped in some garden without an escape. Like Ryan, it may look beautiful, but the scent tickles my throat and makes me want to sneeze.

Before I even make it a block away, I have the windows down. It’s a gorgeous Saturday morning, and the roadways are lined with cars. The diner is packed, as it will be from now to the end of the summer vacation season. I pass a line of trucks and SUVs pulling boats, four-wheelers, and campers, all headed out to the Bluff Preserves National Park.

Growing up in Pine Village, I’m accustomed to the onslaught of tourists who travel to our small northwestern Wisconsin town for time away. Fishing, camping, four-wheeling, and boating in the summer and snowmobiling and ice fishing in the winter. The cabins are rented and the campgrounds full. And my business keeps hopping through it all. I’ve worked on anything and everything over the years, having spent most of my life in the garage that once belonged to my grandpa.

I head for home, though the trip takes longer than normal, thanks to the added traffic. When I finally pass the lane that leads to my house, I feel a sense of belonging. I grew up in these woods, having lived with my grandparents in the very cabin I use as a rental when I was a young boy. When I was twenty-five, my grandpa deeded off a piece of land for me to build my own cabin, the one I live in to this day. Grandpa passed a few years back, and I just couldn’t part with it, despite the more than reasonable offers I received. Instead, I turned it into a rental and let a management company deal with it.

Pulling onto the lane that brings me back to the cabin, I take a moment to enjoy the cooler breeze blowing through the trees. It’s heavenly, the welcome reprieve from the impending arrival of the hot summer sun. When I reach the clearing, I park beside the porch, the sound of my shop truck idling behind me. Just as I make sure the windows are rolled up and I climb out of the SUV, the front door opens.

And out walks Ryan.

She’s wearing a pretty blue sundress, one that hugs the curves of her waist and the mounds of her tits. It hits just below her knees in a classy way, her toned, tanned calves on full display. This time, instead of wearing those ridiculous heels, she’s wearing cork shoes. That’s the only way to describe them.

“What the hell are those?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off her feet.

“What?”

“Those shoes.”

She glances down. “They’re Dior.”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re designer. These are off the new summer line,” she informs me, lifting her heel and showing them off. “They’re made from calfskin.”

“Okay,” I say, drawing out that one word. “I saw those at Walmart last week.”

She huffs and crosses her arms. I wish I could say my eyes didn’t drop to her chest, but that’d be a lie. “These cost fourteen hundred dollars and were made in Italy. I doubt you saw them at Walmart.”

I scratch my head. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Holding out the key, I add, “Here ya go, Princess. You’re all set.”

She snatches the key from my hand. “Thank you. What do I owe you?” she asks, digging cash out of her little bag thingy.

“No charge,” I state, turning to head back toward where Dale waits.

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