Ride Rough - Tessa Layne Page 0,12

I was fifteen." She waved at the broken back end. "And until this morning, it's never had so much as a scratch on it. And," she got right into his space, ignoring the incredible spicy scent of him and the way his scruff made his mouth stand out, and wagged her finger up at him. "My driving record is spotless." Where did he get off accusing her of reckless driving?

"CICI," Jeanine interjected. "Weston's walking over. Just stay calm, okay? Do you know the guy you hit?"

Jeanine's tone jarred her out of her temper. "I didn't hit him," she corrected, frowning at the gorgeous man. "He hit me. And, no. Never seen him before." Why did his eyes have to sparkle like that? This was not funny. Her car was totaled, and his monster truck only had a tiny dent.

"Tell Jeanine it's Trace Walker." He crossed his arms, biceps bulging against a shirt so perfectly tailored she was sure it was custom made. A slow, triumphant smile pulled up his mouth.

Cecilia pulled the phone away from her ear, eyebrows knitting together. "Wait, how do you know Jeanine?" The jerk winked and his smile widened into a grin. What in the heckle? She brought the phone back up again. "He says to tell you it's Trace Walker?" She didn't recognize the name, but the more she studied him, the more she was convinced she knew him.

This time she held her phone at arm's length as Jeanine squealed. "You hit that hottie? Oh honey, make him give you a ride home and then some. Ride that train all the way into the station."

Heat raced up her neck. There was no way he hadn't heard. Now would be a good time for the earth to swallow her up whole. That would be better than living with the mortification currently flooding her body. She risked a glance up, and judging from the way his shoulders were shaking, he definitely heard. Great. What more could go wrong?

Chapter Seven

Trace bit hard on the inside of his cheek. At least he had one fan in town, although that was small comfort when he was on the receiving end of a dress-down from a pint-sized lunatic. Whatever had happened to this CiCi person, she needed to chill. How could a woman be this wound up before eight a.m.? Immediately, his brain landed on a very dirty answer. Trace McBride would conclude she obviously needed a very thorough fucking. His dick jerked in agreement. He bit down harder on his cheek.

Sadly, horizontal action of any kind was out of the question for Trace Walker. Even if the tiny spitfire pushed buttons he didn't know he had. He'd always gravitated to willowy blondes whose personalities wouldn't compete with his, so he wasn't quite sure where this spark of interest was coming from. The woman scolding him was the opposite in every way. Short - he'd estimate just a little over five-feet. Healthy curves, silky black hair he bet was long enough to wind around his hand, a full mouth, and snapping brown eyes that drew him to her like a moth to flame. The way she'd swept into the diner looking like something the cat had drug in, practically daring the old-timers to comment, had been a sight to behold. And the challenge that lit in them when they first locked eyes had his brain going down a delightful, albeit naughty rabbit hole.

"Did you even hear what I said?" Her voice quivered with outrage, and two pink streaks flushed her cheekbones.

He tossed her a crooked grin, knowing his comment would trigger a reaction. "Something about a train station?"

She scowled and huffed, right on cue. "You have a lot of nerve, you know that?"

He arched a brow. "Oh? Tell me more." She growled at his flip response. Trace pressed his lips together to keep from laughing outright.

CiCi rolled her eyes and extended a tiny hand. "Give me your insurance so I can take a picture while we wait."

Shit. His identification had his real name.

Trace widened his stance. "Sorry. No can do."

She crossed her arms, eyes widening in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

He lifted a shoulder. "You heard me, no can do." Weston couldn't get here fast enough. If she saw his real name, the paps would be crawling all over Prairie by dinner. He just needed to keep her distracted long enough for Weston to arrive, then his secret was safe.

"Whyever not?"

Something an old acting coach said years ago popped into his head. Make