Page 18 of Ambrosia Kisses
Paisley
"Great. Just great," Igroan, 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 farare 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. Pierceisup therelaughing, 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 rightnow. 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."
