Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(7)
Aaron walked up between them. “Remind me again why you don’t fly, Rita?”
“Because of crashes. Don’t turn this on me.”
“I won’t.” Her younger brother held up both hands. “I won’t point out that we could have been in New York in under six hours.”
“You’re acting extra dickish because that stupid video went viral, huh?” Rita said, kicking the front left tire of the Suburban and swearing she heard it groan. “So what…we should all have to live like Tibetan monks because you decided to become a politician?”
“You went after someone with a knife on national television.” Aaron finally lost his closely cradled cool, raking frustrated hands through his styled dark blond hair. “Do you have any idea how much shit I had to eat over that at work?”
“Oh, stop. You eat shit for a living. It’s your job.” Rita stomped away, circled back. “And that cheese soufflé was perfect. You have no idea.”
Peggy edged close to the group. “Aaron, don’t do it.”
Ignoring his sister, Aaron straightened his sleeve. “The soufflé looked decent, but it certainly wasn’t knife-attack worthy.”
“Decent?” Rita forced out the word through a throat that felt rubbed raw by a sandstorm. The blinding sunlight turned her vision white, her siblings winking in and out of sight. Anxiety that had been building up since her disgraced departure from In the Heat of the Bite exploded from her nerve endings, and she launched herself at Aaron. Belmont caught her at the last minute, throwing her over his shoulder with little effort and stomping toward the rear of the Suburban.
“You’re letting him get to you,” Belmont said, setting her down and nudging her into a sitting position on the bumper. “Don’t.”
“What were we thinking?” She let her head fall back against the rear gate. “We’ll never make it to New York without a murder being committed.”
“I heard that,” Aaron called from the car’s front. “Should we check your luggage for knives?”
“Aaron,” Peggy whined. “Not cool.”
Rita launched herself off the bumper, only to be wrangled by Belmont once again, who gave a weary sigh.
That’s when the motorcycle pulled up.
*
Good Lord. I should probably just keep on my way.
But Jasper Ellis had been raised with better manners than to leave folks stranded by the roadside, so he slowed his Harley to a stop, parking across the two-lane highway from the motley crew just to be safe. He might be disinclined to leave four obvious city dwellers to their respective fates, but he also valued his hide. And the dark-haired girl glowering on the bumper—seemingly against her will—looked hell bent for leather. In his thirty-three years, he’d learned better than to provoke a female when her eyes said Bring it on.
Unless they were in bed. Then all bets were off.
Jasper removed his helmet and slung it over the left handlebar of his bike. “Y’all in need of some assistance?”
The two people at the busted Suburban’s front end traded a look, as if he’d just spoken in a different language. Yup, these were city folk, sure as he was standing there. Dude was dressed for a Sunday sermon, even though it was a weekday morning. The girl at his shoulder was dressed for the opposite of church in ripped jean shorts and a crop top. She knew how to have a good time, that one. Jasper had a lot of experience with her type and could admire the displayed skin without feeling that spark of attraction he used to get in his belly. Now, the Jasper of Party Girls Past would have already gotten her number.
Instead, he found his gaze drawn to the midnight-haired she devil spitting fire from the car’s significant shadow. He could barely make out her features, but the suspicion radiating from her gave Jasper the odd urge to inspire trust instead. A weird reaction, to be sure, since she appeared to be spoken for. The dark-haired man’s hulking arm was thrown around her slim waist as if restraining her from attacking, and Jasper couldn’t help but chuckle at the suspended animation of the scene. What the hell had he stumbled on here?
Finally, Sunday Sermon spoke up, the whiteness of his teeth noticeable from across the highway. “Yes, actually. It’s our fan belt. We need to call a tow truck and there’s no cell reception.”
“Cell reception?” Jasper asked with a perplexed look, just to f*ck with him. City people were too easy. “I don’t follow.”
Jasper swore the guy turned pale as cotton. “Is there a garage nearby?”
“Sure.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back the way I came. I can take one of you to bring back the tow truck.” Hulk released She Devil and Jasper frowned over the unexpected loosening of his chest. “How about you? Want a ride?”
She Devil’s mouth fell open and she scoffed, “I’d actually rather get back in the car with my brother. And that’s saying something.”
He liked her voice. Kind of scratchy, like she’d been holding in a scream too long. What kind of things set it loose? “Which one is your brother?”
She combed fingers through her midnight hair, leaving it askew in places, but damn if the wayward pieces weren’t cute. “Why?”
For once, Jasper didn’t have a ready answer. “You’re the only one dressed for a bike except for the big guy, and I doubt he’d fit.” His hearty laugh sounded amplified in the dusty quiet of the road. “Sorry, I was just picturing him on the back with his arms around my waist. Go on and think about that. It’s quite a picture.”