Page 5 of Reckless
So, I give in and stop for gas in Chestnut Springs before hitting the sketchy back road my phone mapped out to the ranch.
As I stand here, freezing and wishing I’d worn more appropriate outdoor winter clothing, I let all the worry creep in through my carefully erected walls.
Worry over seeing Summer.
Worry over sitting down to dinner with a bunch of people who no doubt think I’m a heinous bitch.
Worry over the snow-packed roads. I’ve seen too many car accident traumas roll into the ER lately.
Worry over my career and what the hell I’m going to do—where I’m going to land.
Hilariously—albeit a dark hilarious—I feel next to no concern over the thought of leaving Rob for good. I’ve strung that out for a long time. I’ve thought about it, analyzed it from every angle.
I kept thinking of divorce as a failure. But leaving tonight didn’t feel like failing.
It felt like relief. Like someone has been standing on my chest and I finally got my shit together enough to push them off. My muscles are tired from pushing, and I’ve got some bumps and bruises from the fight.
Leaving hurt, but I can finally breathe through the pain.
I sigh a deep, heavy sigh and watch my breath puff out from between my lips into a smoky little cloud, more obvious under the neon lights that flood down over the gas bays. The tips of my fingers go from tingling to downright numb in a matter of seconds, where they’re wrapped around the red plastic handle. I bounce on the spot and look up when I hear a bell jangle at the door of the gas station.
The man who walks out through the glass door is all swagger and broad shoulders. Dark hair, darker eyes, lashes that make the blonde girl in me a little irritated. He’s smirking down at the lotto ticket in his hand, like he thinks he’s going to win.
I could tell him he’s not going to win. That it’s a waste of money. But I get the distinct impression this is the type of man who doesn’t care.
He’s got unlaced boots, jeans stacked around the tops. A couple of long silver chains adorn his chest, disappearing under a plaid button-down that is open just a little too far, a heavy knit cardigan slung carelessly over the top.
He’s sexy without even trying. Even the weather doesn’t seem to bother him. I bet he rolls out of bed after sleeping in yesterday’s socks and just shoves them back in those worn leather boots.
I bet his hands are rough. I bet he smells like leather. And after the man I’ve spent the last several years with, I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the rugged appeal of the man before me.
I’ve stared at him so long, so thoroughly, that the gas pump makes a loud clanking noise as it bumps back into my palm, signaling the tank is full.
The noise of it draws his attention my way, and he turns the full force of his sex appeal on me. The square jaw dusted with the perfect amount of stubble, topped off with lips that are just wasted on a man. The way he looks? It’s absurd.
I drop my head quickly, fumbling with the pump to get it latched back in its holder. My tongue swipes at my lips.
I get the distinct sense that the sexy lumberjack is watching me, but I don’t glance up to see. There’s a flutter in my chest and a heat in my cheeks, one I haven’t felt for a very, very long time.
Because I was actually happily married. And now I’m . . . not.
I think.
And this is the first man I’ve let myself look at inappropriately. A man who can’t bother to tie his shoes and plays the lotto.
“Ugh,” I groan at myself as I approach my door, suddenly a lot less cold than I was before I saw him.
But as I’m about to slide into my seat, I peek back over my shoulder at the guy.
The one standing at his silver truck.
The one who’s still watching me with a knowing smirk on his face.
The one who runs a hand through his perfectly tousled hair and winks at me.
I’m in my car and out onto the dark road like a shot, getting away as quickly as possible.
Because the very last thing I need in my life is someone who makes me feel like there’s not enough oxygen in my lungs when I’ve only just caught my breath.
