Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
“Great,” I muttered. “No car, no bars, and I look like a Target-brand Veronica Mars.”
I started walking.
The road ahead curved through endless stretches of trees and fields, with no signs in sight to indicate where I was. I had no clue if I was even heading in the right direction. The GPS had died an hour ago when the signal dropped, and I hadn’t memorized enough to be sure of anything. But sitting still wasn’t an option.
If Colin Maddox’s people were behind me, I wasn’t going to wait around for them to catch up. I didn’t trust that they didn’t have a way to track the car, even an old junker like mine could be tailed with the right gear. So, I pushed forward, Toms crunching on the shoulder gravel, trying not to think about how hot it was or how much heavier my bag had become. And then something else became very apparent—my Toms were a huge issue. They were normally amazing for when you didn’t want to go out in flip-flops in the Florida temperatures, but on rocks on the side of the road? These things were freaking hell on earth. Why were the soles so thin? I could feel every single rock, stone, tiny pebble, and whatever else I stood on. I swear I even felt that cigarette butt I’d just stood on.
With the pain in my feet and the hot sun hitting me full-on, it occurred to me that, for the first time since this whole thing started, I was really alone. Alone, on foot, in the middle of nowhere.
And no one knew where the hell I was. I was so screwed, and now in a new way to the ways I was already screwed.
Three hours later…
The second I climbed into the truck, the blast of blessed AC made me want to cry actual tears. My knees stuck to the seat, my shirt clung to my spine like a needy ex, and I was vaguely aware I probably smelled like despair and overheated upholstery, but that had made hopping into this potential axe murder's vehicle worth it. Call me dumb, but my car had tried to kill me, and a weird, psychotic, but well-respected businessman was after me. What's the worst a stranger could do at this point? I was probably better off not asking that question, given how my day was going.
The driver extended a calloused hand, taking me by surprise. “Name’s Drew. I’m one of the ranch hands up at the Townsend-Rossi ranch.”
Right, that was Marcus’s ranch. I’d only ever heard about it in passing — mostly in stories that involved livestock escaping, someone getting kicked, and the occasional unlicensed flamethrower.
I shook his hand. “Gabby. I’m, uh… a relative-ish of one of the Townsend-Rossi’s.”
His eyes flicked to my hair, then back to my face. “Yeah, I remember you. You were a brunette last time. Gotta say, the red wig doesn’t suit you.”
I blinked, pretty sure I'd never met him before. “Wow, okay. And where about did we meet?”
He grinned, unbothered. “The glasses are cute, though, and that sunburn's impressive. Did you know it matches your hair now?”
I winced and touched my cheek. I could feel the skin tightening every time I moved my face, like nature’s way of saying, “Good job, dumbass.”
“I was hoping it wasn’t that bad,” I sighed.
“Oh, it’s bad.”
I groaned. “Some tan lines are cute, right? Like the accidental bracelet line or whatever.” I glanced down at my shirt—one of those trendy ones with cutouts on the shoulders and tiny holes down the back. “I’m going to look like I fell asleep on a grill, red dots and all. On top of that, it'll look like I’m still wearing this thing even when I take it off.”
Drew laughed. “At least it’s a look. You might start a trend.”
I sighed, leaned my head back against the seat, and mumbled, “My life’s fucked.”
He snorted. “Whose isn’t? You just gotta deal with the fuckery and make it work for you.”
That actually pulled a weak chuckle out of me. “Pretty sure this much fuckery would drown an actual professional. But thanks for the wisdom, I’ll write it on a sticky note to get it put on a cup.”
We bumped over a pothole that probably doubled as a wildlife watering hole, and my head thunked lightly against the window. I could feel my brain rattle in my skull. “What's this road made of, craters? Broken dreams? If my car hadn’t died when it did, it would’ve exploded the second I hit this stretch.”
Drew shrugged. “That’s why we use trucks out here. The cars can’t handle the sass.”
“Sass? That’s what we’re calling it now?”
He winked. “Townsend-Rossi Ranch motto: Built tough for high-stress horses and emotionally unstable visitors.”
I chuckled just as the ranch came into view—sprawling fields, stables, and a couple of properties with massive wraparound porches that looked like they’d been built for dramatic speeches and surprise pregnancy reveals. Jesus, I needed to get off social media.