Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)
Melody Grace
One.
I pride myself on being a pretty self-sufficient girl: I pay my own bills, change my oil, and thanks to four years at one of the biggest party schools in the South, I’m able to down half my weight in tequila shots and still keep it together well enough to thank my host kindly and take off my makeup before passing out. Whatever comes my way, I can usually handle it with some smarts, a little charm, and if all else fails, a flash of cleavage doesn’t hurt either. I’m a modern woman, hear me roar.
But even my best lace bra (worn today for extra luck) can’t help me now: stranded on the street in the middle of the city trying to break into my own car.
Central locking doesn’t care about charm.
“C’mon, baby,” I beg, trying the door handle again, but it doesn’t budge. My old beat-up Honda would have given up the goods with just a thump in the right spot, but no, I had to go and trade up last year to this shiny new model with AC, mp3 player, and all the bells and whistles. Sure, now I can make the drive into the city without my hair falling into a limp, humid tangle, but I’d take bad hair in a heartbeat if I could hit the road and get back home tonight.
I need this day to be over already.
I sink against the car, shifting my weight to ease the pain in my Power Shoes, aka the three-inch heeled pumps that pinch around the toes, but make me feel invincible for a big meeting. I needed all the good luck I could get today; I was pitching for what could have been the biggest real estate listing of my career—a big new development of beach houses just outside my small town—but somehow, even with the shoes, and the lucky bra, and the twenty-page proposal that I polished until it shone, I still walked out of that boardroom a big fat failure.
I can still taste the defeat. I spent weeks playing phone tag with the CEO to even get the meeting, and weeks more honing my proposal to an irresistible package. But after all that, the smug guys at the head of the table barely even looked at my file before giving me a fake, insincere smile.
“We’re looking for someone with more experience to lead the sales.”
Experience! I’ve sold more real estate in Oak Harbor than anyone, but just the way he sneered at me said he would never take me seriously—not compared to the big flashy companies here in the city who think that expensive ad campaigns can make up for real local knowledge from someone born and raised right there in town. And if that wasn’t bad enough, while I was busy drowning my sorrows with a consolation drink at the bar down the street, someone decided to lift my bag from the back of my seat. I only took my eyes off it for a moment, but that was long enough. Goodbye wallet, farewell phone, adios car keys.
They had to steal my damn car keys.
I blink back tears, determined to keep my mascara intact, if nothing else. I’m stranded on the street with sore feet, no big new deal, and zero way to get home tonight. Could this day get any worse?
An ominous rumble of thunder sounds. I look up at the dark evening sky, thick with rainclouds.
Really? C’mon!
I take a deep breath and try to figure out what to do next. Think, Delilah. No money means no cabs or even a bus home, and I’m four hours from Oak Harbor, so even if I could get to a phone, remember a number, and sweet-talk a friend into coming to pick me up, I would still have hours to kill in a city without a dollar to my name.
That’s OK. I try to stay upbeat. You can be resourceful.
The cute pencil skirt and silk blouse I’m wearing don’t leave much room for breakin tools, but I pinned my hair up this morning in a neat French twist and fastened it with—ta da!—an enamel hair pin. I yank the pin out, crouch down, and try to jimmy it into the lock. This kind of thing looks easy in movies, but when I wiggle the pin around, nothing happens. Hmmm, just a little further—
The car alarm blares to life in an ear-shattering siren.
No!
Passers-by look over, giving me suspicious glares. I can’t exactly blame them, crouched here poking at the lock. I frantically jimmy the hairpin again, and finally, the alarm shuts off.
Relief.
I sink down to sit on the edge of the curb in defeat. So much for invincible. Maybe you’re not the hotshot you thought you were.
“Do you need any help?”
A voice makes me lift my head. A man has paused on the sidewalk, looking down at me with concern.
A hot, gorgeous vision of a man.
I blink. He’s got dark hair and smoky hazel eyes, standing tall and broad-shouldered in a crisp button-down, suit, and tie. Clean-shaven, strong-jawed, and utterly delicious.
“Umm, no, I’m fine.” I scramble up, smooth down my skirt, and manage to flash him a smile. “Thanks, but unless you moonlight as a car thief, I’m not sure you can help.”
He raises an eyebrow quizzically. Damn, he’s hot.
“I’m locked out,” I explain, nodding to the car. “Someone stole my purse earlier, so I don’t have my keys.”
“Tough break, I’m sorry.” The guy pulls his phone from his back pocket and offers it to me. “Do you want to call someone? Triple A?”
“Thanks, but I live hours from here.” I give a rueful smile. “And I’m pretty sure I let my membership lapse.”
He grins back. “So basically, you’re screwed.”
I laugh, surprised. “Basically, yes.”