Shaken (Twisted Fox #2) - Charity Ferrell

Prologue

Archer

“You selfish bastard!” He charges toward me, his face darkened with fury.

The commotion around us—people crying, asking questions, breaking down—fades away.

I stay in place, unmoving, while waiting for the assault I deserve. The crack of my jaw is all I hear before the pain strikes, and I stumble back, wiping the blood from my lip with the side of my clenched fist.

Straightening myself, I prepare for the next blow.

It connects with my nose.

I don’t fight back.

I deserve this.

I am a selfish bastard.

The old proverb, One night can change your life, is on the mark.

My life has changed.

Fuck the lifestyles of the rich.

I’m out.

1

Georgia

Call me the queen of embarrassing moments.

Tripping up the stairs and face-planting at my high school graduation.

Side-swiping a car during my driver’s test.

Today’s embarrassment winner of the week is …

Drumroll, please.

Getting stood up for a date.

Even worse, while waiting on my date, the guy I’d dumped six months ago arrived with his. Lucky asshole’s date actually showed, and I provided them with free entertainment as they witnessed my disaster.

It’s what you deserve for swiping right on a dude with a mirror selfie as his profile pic, Georgia.

In my defense, it was margarita night, and I was third-wheeling it when said swiping ensued.

To recover from the mortification, I drive to my happy place—the coffee shop. Iced coffee never fails to pull me out of the I’ll be single for the rest of my life funk.

“Jackpot.” I smile when I spot an empty space before abruptly stopping. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Parked next to the only available spot is a car—foreign, expensive, one of those you see in the movies with rich-people problems.

Parked is an understatement.

I pull into the sliver of a space, and like the mature and not-at-all-annoyed woman I am, I give the foreign-car-driving asshole no room to open their door. With a shrug, I step out of my car—American, cheap, one of those that always breaks down in the movies—and stroll into the coffee shop.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking back through the parking lot and fueling myself with cold-brew deliciousness. My sipping stops when I notice a man standing behind my car. Shoving my sunglasses down my nose, I take a better look.

“Siri, find me a tow company in the area.”

The hell?

I scramble toward him, waving my arm in the air, and shriek, “Whoa! Don’t call a tow truck!”

Is that even legal?

Lord knows I can’t afford it if he does. I can barely afford my iced-coffee dependency.

When he turns, my breathing stalls, and I freeze. Momentarily, my car being towed becomes an afterthought.

The man is gorgeous.

GQ cover-worthy.

Looking every shade of pissed off.

The sight of him is stronger than any caffeine shot.

His sexy ruggedness—tall and built like a linebacker, broad shoulders, and muscle-bound biceps—is such a contrast to my small frame. Stubbled hair and scruff, trimmed to the jawline, scatters along the slope of his cheeks and down his neck. His hair, a shade matching the drink in my cup, is thick and hits the nape of his neck.

He’s clean-cut but not clean-cut.

Fighting not to fit the profile of a wealthy man.

A man who gives no fucks … which unfortunately also applies to his parking.

He glowers as I make my way to him, and I keep a short distance between us.

“This your car?” His voice matches his appearance—cold and sharp, like a knife slicing through ice.

“Yes,” I answer.

He stares, waiting for me to elaborate.

I take a loud slurp of my coffee before saying, “Please, put your phone away. No need to call a tow company.”

“Did you just get your driver’s license?” Authority fills his tone, as if he were scolding a child, when he signals to my park job. “Who parks like that? Do you need a booster seat to see over the steering wheel?”

Rude.

Short jokes are so grade school.

“The better question is who parks like that?” I scowl and gesture to his car. “You took a spot and a half. Not cool.”

The collar of his simple white V-neck tee stretches out when he tugs on it. “That was the only available spot when I got here—”

“That means you can park however you want?”

“If you’d let me finish. When I got here, the car on the opposite side of me was parked like shit. A motorcycle was in your spot, so the way I parked provided plenty of room for the both of us.” He holds up the coffee cup in his hand. “I planned to run in and out, but when I ran out, your car was

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