Watch Me Fall (Ross Siblings, #5)(3)

“Yeah, I did. Nearly ran me into the ditch.”

“That’s the trouble I’m having. Or rather, the idiot driving it.”

To her surprise, he opened the driver’s door. A heavy work boot came down on the truck’s single step, and he easily boosted himself down.

Out here, standing just at the edge of the shine of his headlights, she could see better. Tall. Broad shoulders that almost stretched the dark plaid of his shirt. Built. A scent wafted toward her, not cologne but hay, cut grass, fresh air, and hard work.

And, hello, beard.

He tipped his cap back a bit and appraised her closely with eyes of an indiscernible color. Whatever color it was, it was light.

Please, God in heaven, don’t let them be blue.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his assessment apparently yielding him nothing alarming.

“Oh yeah,” she said quickly, glancing down self-consciously at herself. “Nothing much happened. I just made him let me out. Jerk. I did break my phone, though, so I can’t call anyone to pick me up. I was going to walk.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, debating. Not wanting to ask outright for any help, no matter how badly she needed it.

“I’m on my way into town. I can give you a ride if you want.”

Hmm. Punishment and blisters and achy feet versus heat and the comfort of a seat under her butt. No brainer. And she’d bet the meager contents of her bank account that this dude wasn’t a machete-wielding maniac. Although he could probably wield a machete, which would come in handy with idiots like Max.

Of course, stubborn thoughts like that were what always got her into these situations.





Chapter Two



Jared Stanton glanced over at his charge for the next few miles and puzzled over where he’d seen her before. She sat demurely against the passenger door, but he’d bet there really wasn’t a demure thing about her. She wore a black top with cut-out shoulders, enough to show that both her arms were covered with tattoos, and her jeans were ratty and torn enough to reveal her legs were no different. Shimmering blonde hair with pink and turquoise streaks spilled in large curls over her shoulders. She stared out the window, elbow propped on the door, silver-ringed fingers pensively at her lips.

Silence had filled the air ever since she’d hoisted herself into his truck. Ordinarily? he had no problem with silence, but this was a girl who looked like she had a lot to say. He only needed to look at her to see the tension thrumming under her skin.

“You really look familiar,” he said at last, then wanted to cringe at the banality of it. It was enough, though, to bring her head around. Feeling her stare him down, he figured it was no less than he deserved. He’d been doing the same to her.

“Now that I think about it, you do too.”

Interesting. But this wasn’t a big town, after all; he might’ve only seen her in passing. “What’s your name?”

“Starla.” She sat silently for a moment, but he still felt her gaze boring into him. “Oh. Oh shit. I think I just figured out who you are.”

And that was even more interesting, though he should have guessed what she was going to say before it came out of her mouth, should have prepared for the teeth-grinding misery of it. “You’re Macy Rodgers’s ex.”

Yeah. That was what he was known for, it seemed. Macy Rodgers’s ex. Since the catastrophe that relegated him to that position in life, he’d married someone else, had kids, divorced, and still, Macy Rodgers hung like a damn thundercloud over his head, forever to rain on his life. He and Macy had been an inseparable unit for so many years, though, with so many people expecting them to be together forever, he supposed that was inevitable.

“Jared Stanton,” he said, if only to prove to himself he had a name. He glanced at Starla again, the colorful hair, the tattoos, the little flash of silver he’d noticed on her tongue when she’d spoken to him outside his truck. “I take it you’re acquainted with…” He trailed off, not wanting to give voice to the guy’s nickname. It sat sour and unsaid on his tongue.

“Ghost,” she supplied. “Yeah. I work with him.”

Jared sat in silence, white-knuckling the steering wheel as the muscles in his chest tightened. It wasn’t that he could really blame Ghost for taking Macy and running. How could he? He’d tried to do the same, not once but twice. It was just that if Ghost hadn’t come along when he did, forever with Macy might have finally happened.

“He’s a good guy, you know,” Starla said, probably sensing his own tension had ratcheted up tenfold. “Don’t let him fool you with the crazy act. That * I was with tonight? That’s a bad dude. Ghost, he’s pretty awesome.”

The last thing he needed was to hear the guy’s praises sung in his own truck. But he had to admit it was nice to hear Macy would be okay from a more objective source. She’d promised Jared that herself, but she was biased. Her parents had even promised him, but did they really know that guy? Ghost would be on his best behavior around them. Hearing that a coworker—whose opinions could run good or bad—thought highly of him was slightly more comforting.

“That’s good,” he said, hearing the strain in his words. “So you’re a tattoo artist, then?”

“At Dermamania, yeah.”