Truly, Madly, Whiskey(95)
It wasn’t like her jelly legs could carry her out of there anyway. Incredibly beautiful? Faith had been told she was pretty often enough to believe it, but incredibly beautiful? That was pushing it. That was smooth-talking Sam, the limit pusher.
She had to admit, he had this pickup thing down pat. His eyes were solely focused on her, while she felt the gaze of nearly every single woman in the place on her like they wondered what she had that they didn’t—or maybe like they wanted to kill her. Yup. That was probably more accurate.
“The wedding was lovely,” she managed. “I’m happy for Cole and Leesa, but I’m hosting a car wash at Harbor Park tomorrow afternoon. I should really get going so I have time to prepare.”
Sam stepped closer. His fingers caressed the back of her arm, sending shivers of heat straight to her brain—and short-circuiting it.
“Harbor Park?” The right side of his tempting mouth lifted in a teasing smile. “Surely you won’t turn into a pumpkin this early. You can’t leave without giving me one dance. Come on. Think of how happy it’ll make Cole to see you enjoying yourself.”
He was obviously not going to give up. Maybe she should just give in and dance with him. She had no desire to be another in the long line of Sam’s conquests, but it was just one dance, and then she could leave, and he’d go back to any of the other women there. That idea sank like a rock in her stomach.
Her stupid hormones swam to the surface again. You did ask nicely. Maybe she was reading too much into this dance. It was just a dance, not a date.
But his eyes were boring into her in that I want to get into your panties way he had. She’d seen him give that look to several other women tonight.
Several. Other. Women.
Ugh! Why was she even considering this?
It was his hand, moving up and down her arm, making her shivery and hot at once. And those eyes, drawing her in, making her feel important. She wasn’t important to Sam. She knew that in her smart physician assistant brain, but her ovaries had some sort of hold on that part of her brain, crushing her smart cells.
Faith glanced at the dance floor and caught sight of Cole whispering something in Leesa’s ear. They were such a handsome couple, and Cole was such a kind boss. Maybe she should stay a little longer. She didn’t have to dance with Sam. She could just talk with him until he got bored and moved on.
Cole’s eyes turned serious, and Leesa looked over, too. He said something to her and headed in their direction with a scowl on his face and an angry bead aimed at Sam. Shit. This was not good. He was her boss.
Oh my God. What was she thinking? She shouldn’t dance with her boss’s brother!
“Actually…” Panic bloomed inside her chest as Cole neared. Cole respected her, but she knew he’d noticed the way she got flustered around Sam. He’d seen her turn beet-red with Sam’s compliments when Sam visited him at the office. She didn’t need him seeing her all swoony-eyed over him now.
“I really have to go, but thanks for asking, Sam.” She spun on her heel and hurried away before she could lose her nerve.
End of sneak peek
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TRU BLUE
Chapter One
TRUMAN GRITT LOCKED the door to Whiskey Automotive and stepped into the stormy September night. Sheets of rain blurred his vision, instantly drenching his jeans and T-shirt. A slow smile crept across his face as he tipped his chin up, soaking in the shower of freedom. He made his way around the dark building and climbed the wooden stairs to the deck outside his apartment. He could have used the interior door, but after being behind bars for six long years, Truman took advantage of the small pleasures he’d missed out on, like determining his own schedule, deciding when to eat and drink, and standing in the f*cking rain if he wanted to. He leaned on the rough wooden railing, ignoring the splinters piercing his tattooed forearms, squinted against the wetness, and scanned the cars in the junkyard they used for parts—and he used to rid himself of frustrations. He rested his leather boot on the metal box where he kept his painting supplies. Truman didn’t have much—his old extended-cab truck, which his friend Bear Whiskey had held on to for him while he was in prison, this apartment, and a solid job, both of which were compliments of the Whiskey family. The only family he had anymore.
Emotions he didn’t want to deal with burned in his gut, causing his chest to constrict. He turned to go inside, hoping to outrun thoughts of his own f*cked-up family, whom he’d tried—and failed—to save. His cell phone rang with his brother’s ringtone, “A Beautiful Lie” by 30 Seconds to Mars.
“Fuck,” he muttered, debating letting the call go to voicemail, but six months of silence from his brother was a long time. Rain pelleted his back as he pressed his palm to the door to steady himself. The ringing stopped, and he blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d trapped inside. The phone rang again, and he froze.
He’d just freed himself from the dredges of hell that he’d been thrown into in an effort to save his brother. He didn’t need to get wrapped up in whatever mess the drug-addicted fool had gotten himself into. The call went to voicemail, and Truman eyed the metal box containing his painting supplies. Breathing like he’d been in a fight, he wished he could paint the frustration out of his head. When the phone rang for the third time in as many minutes, the third time since he was released from prison six months ago, he reluctantly answered.