Page 5 of Bolt To Me
The kiss was slow at first, tentative. Then something in it cracked open and it surged, fierce and consuming. His hand found her waist, fingers curling against the satin like it belonged to him. Her hand fisted in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. Their mouths collided again and again, the kiss deepening, unraveling. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t calculated. It was heat and relief and too many unsaid things.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and blinking, Carli stared at him, stunned by the intensity. “Definitely a mistake,” she whispered, lips still tingling.
“Best one I’ve had in a while,” Cory murmured, that crooked, dangerous grin returning.
She let out a laugh and buried her face in her hands. “This is a disaster.”
“Maybe,” he said, his tone soft. “But it’s our disaster.”
And for the first time all day, Carli Santana didn’t feel like running.
A Place to Hide
Carli woke to a sunbeam slicing mercilessly through the slats of her childhood bedroom blinds, striking her directly across the eyes like a judgmental spotlight from heaven. The air was warm, thick with the scent of old furniture polish and the faint perfume of rosewater that clung to the lace curtain her mother refused to replace. She was still wearing the remnants of her wedding dress, the bodice askew, one strap barely hanging on, the hem bunched around her legs like a suffocated dream. Her mascara had melted during the night, leaving black smudges beneath her eyes like bruises from something she couldn’t name.
Her mouth tasted like cotton and regret. Groaning, she rolled onto her side and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. At some point, someone had come home between her fleeing the church and Cory dropping her off and left it for her to find in the kitchen. She had locked herself in her bedroom when she got home, and when her parents knocked on the door, she hidherself in her impossibly too froofy wedding dress, in her closet. They gave up, mumbling about crazy daughters and where was she, and she didn’t come out until she was sure they had gone to bed. Now, her cell phone was buzzing, lighting up with a flood of missed calls and unanswered messages that only confirmed the storm she’d stirred up.
23 new messages. 17 missed calls.One voicemail from her mother that began with “Carlita Maria Santana, you come home right now!“ and ended with a dramatic sniffle that could shatter glass. She hit mute, dropped the phone onto the carpet like it had personally offended her, and buried her face in the pillow.
Twelve hours. It hadn’t even been twelve full hours since she’d sprinted across the church lawn like a madwoman in bare feet, had the veil ripped from her head in a blur of tulle and fury, kissed Cory Hayes like he was the last bad idea on Earth, and made herself the headliner of every group chat in Willow Creek.
She was totally fine. Absolutely, completely fine. Maybe. Possibly.
No, she was screwed.
Her head throbbed with the weight of unsaid things. Her heart didn’t know what it was doing anymore. And her dress, a $3,800 custom satin masterpiece that now looked like it had barely survived a stampede, was the most expensive piece of emotional shrapnel she’d ever worn.
A knock echoed from the front door, sharp and deliberate. Carli froze. Her mother was at church or organizing some kind of post-wedding damage control brunch, and her dad had already made himself scarce. She moved to the window, lifted the curtain with the tip of one finger, and peered outside.
There it was. A sleek black truck parked perfectly along the curb, clean enough to reflect the oak branches above it. And leaning casually against the driver’s side door, dressed in a darkT-shirt, cowboy boots, and jeans that did unspeakable things to his legs, stood Cory freaking Hayes.
He had a cardboard drink tray in one hand and an expression that radiated smug amusement, as though he’d woken up knowing exactly how good he looked and had zero shame about it. The sun highlighted the angles of his jaw, the tousled mess of his hair, the easy tilt of his mouth like a challenge he was daring her to accept.
The man had brought coffee. That insufferable, gorgeous bastard had brought coffee.
Carli didn’t bother putting on shoes. She padded downstairs barefoot, her steps light on the scuffed wooden floor, the scent of cinnamon and old books rising from every creak. She opened the front door, leaning into the frame as if she were holding the house upright with her attitude alone.
“You’re lucky I’m not my mama,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “She’d have come out here with a shotgun and a lecture about Jesus.”
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Cory replied, unfazed. He held up the coffee like an offering to a wrathful goddess. “Figured you could use some reinforcements. Black. No sugar. Just like you used to order when you were pretending to like Hemingway.”
“I wasn’t pretending. I actually like Hemingway,” she objected. Carli arched a brow but took the cup. It was warm and fragrant, smelling like sanity. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he said smoothly. “I just figured you might want to disappear for a bit before the Whitmore clan shows up with torches and monogrammed pitchforks.”
Carli took a long sip, the bitterness grounding her more than she’d expected. “Too late. They’re already texting my aunts in Laredo. There’s probably a prayer circle forming as we speak.”
He gave a sympathetic wince. “My condolences.”
“You got a bunker somewhere?”
“Better,” he said, pushing off the truck. “I’ve got a guesthouse at the ranch. Empty, quiet, no one bothers it. It’s far enough off the main road to avoid looky-loos. You can lie low for a few days. Just until things cool off.”
Carli stared at him, unsure if this was generosity or another spark tossed onto the fire. “You’re offering to hide me?”
“I’m offering to give you space. Away from the cameras, the texts, the opinions, the expectations. You can think. Sleep. Breathe.” He leaned in the doorway. “And if anyone comes onto Hayes’ property, I have the right to shoot them before they get to you.”
“A bit dramatic.” She sipped more coffee. “And you’ll just… what? Be my knight in faded jeans?”
