The perfect recipe for procrastination includes the following: a church, a category two hurricane, and an irresistible ex-con. Said ex-con is smarter than he looks, and as it turns out, he's also an incredible kisser.
There would be no studying thi...
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The scent of oil hung heavy in the air.
Car oil.
Esmeralda didn't know jack shit about cars, and yet for three days in a row she'd been drawn to the garage . . . like a moth to a flame, like ants to sugar, like waves to the seashore.
The shiny, black convertible was nice and all, but it wasn't the reason her pulse was racing to keep up with the demands of her pounding heart.
She shook out her hair, running her fingers through lush strands, a lousy attempt at trying to make herself look presentable.
With her heart in her throat, she followed the trail down the cobblestone path belonging to the sprawling six bedroom house that her sister lived in with her husband and their four-year-old son. She rounded the corner with a skip in her step, her feet light, mimicking the feeling in her head like she was floating on clouds.
Lately, she'd been obsessed with the naked form of men, when before she'd barely even noticed them. And she wasn't talking about the skimpy bodies of high school boys. Men. Grown ass men who had their shit together.
At least, this particular one did.
Darrell Davenport.
Science teacher to the aforementioned skimpy boys and teenage girls who had nothing better to do with their lives than to berate a sick girl about her weight. Yes, she was a bit on the skinny side, and not for lack of eating. She ate like a pig. Piles on piles of food. Protein rich food. Calorie rich food. Delicious fucking food.
Dinner was still two hours away and so far today she'd had half a tub of yogurt, four sandwiches, a mango, two protein bars, and a large portion of homemade fries. She could literally eat a horse on some days.
The clang of metal hitting the concrete floor momentarily distracted her from the fact that she was hungry again. The sight of a very half naked Darrell Davenport totally brought the hunger back, but then of a different kind. The kind that she had no business thinking about.
But how could she not wonder about his sexual prowess, when a glimpse of Darrell's broad shoulders was enough to make her bite her lip in sheer frustration? Every step she took toward the garage set her nerves on edge. She felt like she was walking barefooted on a coral reef.
Darrell wasn't wearing a shirt, again. No surprise there. With his back turned to her and his head buried in the hood of the car he was working on, she had a minute or two to ogle him.
Dammit. He was turning her into a creep.
How is it she'd never noticed just how sexy a man's back was before now? She studied the groove running down the middle of his spine and watched with keen interest as the defined muscles undulated with every move he made. Slowly, she soaked in the rest of him. The grey sweatpants hanging low on his hip. The sheen of sweat glistening on his toffee colored skin. The sharp angle of his jaw as he turned his head slightly to the left.
