It’s the most exciting time of the year in Branson Falls, Utah—the annual county fair and parade. Branson Tribune editor, Kate Saxee, is busy covering stories involving animal auctions, the popular “poop drop” lottery, and a clown crash. Oh, and the Branson sugar factory just exploded.
I was taking more notes when a deep, sexy voice whispered in my ear. “Hey, Kitty Kate.” Every part of me was instantly aware of his presence. Even the hair on my arms paid attention. I was surprised I hadn’t smelled his Swagger body wash before I heard him. I turned around and my breath hitched. I took him in from head to toe. His sandy brown hair was short and messy, like he’d styled it with just his hands, and his light green eyes were even more piercing in the sun. His faded jeans fit his ass perfectly, and hung looser around his thighs. His tight, teal t-shirt clung to his hard abs and biceps with a tattoo that peeked out from under his sleeves. I was determined to find out what it was a tattoo of—and if he had any more. But, it hadn’t happened—yet.
“Hey,” I said back, my voice breathy. “What are you doing here?”
“I was a witness,” Hawke answered. “I just gave my statement.”
I looked around. I hadn’t seen his super sexy blue 1967 GT Shelby Mustang with white racing stripes. My eyes were trained to notice it. I would have found it immediately.
“I don’t have it today,” Hawke said, reading my mind—no doubt one of his many talents.
Hawke had two giant red brick buildings on his property that matched his giant red brick house. One was a gym. The other was a garage. Though I’d wanted to go in the garage, so far I’d only been invited to Pain—my nickname for his gym. I’d been looking forward to checking out Hawke’s car collection, and wondered what he could possibly be driving today. I looked around. I didn’t see a Lamborghini, and I was a little disappointed. “What are you driving, then?”
He nodded in the direction of a glossy black Harley with some sort of tribal design in matte black that stood out against the gloss. A black matte helmet hung from one of the handlebars. Everything about it said smooth, sexy, and dangerous. I sucked in a breath. I’d already been in lust; Hawke on a bike catapulted my emotions straight to I’ll-do-anything-you-want-just-say-the-word territory. A vision of Jax Teller merged with Hawke in my head. My face got hot at the thought.
Hawke’s lips slid into a slow smile. “Want a ride?”
Did I ever. And not just on the bike.
When I was nine, Mary Ann Boggs had written, “Rosses are red, violets are blue, I turned out perfict what happened to you” in my yearbook. I’d returned the favor by writing, “At least I can spell, you stupid butthole.”
That had resulted in a phone call from Mary Ann’s mom berating my dirty mouth and questioning my mom’s parenting abilities. Despite my attempts to show my mom the yearbook signature to prove I had just cause for my profanity, and Mary Ann actually was a stupid butthole, my mom didn’t see things my way. She’d turned into a red-faced, female fury in a pink checkered skirt and pantyhose. I maintained that the pantyhose were probably the biggest part of the reason she was so angry, and had she not been wearing them, my sentence might have been less harsh. But, thanks to the demon who invented hosiery, she’d washed my mouth out with soap—I still hadn’t forgiven her—and told me never to use that word again. I had, and much worse, but I tried to be careful about swearing in her presence. It was the one time I’d seen her truly out of her mind with rage in my whole life.
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