“That’s a bit much,” Thug One says with his hands out, trying to diffuse the situation now. He steps back in front. “We’re just here to collect, and if you can’t pay, we’re going to have to talk about another kind of payment plan.”
Thugs Two and Three crack their knuckles, grinning eagerly.
Behind the wall of wicked, a lime green sports car roars up to the curb. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill, souped-up but still affordable beast. This isthesports car. The imported, millions of dollars kind.
The door opens into the air because, yes, of course it does, and the world’s most handsome dad…I mean, Warrick Beanbottom…emerges.
It’s a testament to the man’s beauty and his stupidly powerful pheromones that my ovaries practically explode on the spot…and not from relief. The rest of my body gets the message and does aholy shit, he’s here to save us from the bone grinders,full-on wilt. I have to lean against the doorway to keep myself from falling over.
I should be angry with this man for being a total douche muffin earlier, but my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
He marches up the sidewalk toward us and bellows at the top of his lungs, his deep baritone hitting me in all the parts. I mean, feels. I mean…dear lord, is it possible to be so scrambled that you don’t even know what you mean?
“Are you the thugs that my son owes money to?”
It’s quite obvious, but I’m glad he’s checking. We wouldn’t want another misunderstanding, and who’s going to say no to free money?
Thug One, more like Leader Thug, spins around, reorienting the triangle of terror so he’s at the front of it, and the other thugs have their backs to us. Granny’s cane lifts an inch off the ground. I quickly slam my hand over hers, forcing it gently back to the ground. Her smile of delight is about as bone-chilling as if she had truly been able to whack one of them over the head.Control your intrusive thoughts, Granny. I want to get out of this alive.She keeps grinning, which means my telepathic eyeball look is clearly not working wonders.
“I believe that would be correct,” Leader Thug confirms.
Warrick stops. His black button-up shirt is the same one from this morning. It looks like he’s wearing the same jeans too. They’re basically sin on a sire and tight in all the places that should be tight, namely on his muscles on muscles, which areeverywhere. Thick, strong thighs, broad shoulders, hard pecs, and washboard abs that I’d love to scrub my face over like a dirty garment from the very distant past.
Wait…what?
Also…sin on a sire? Good freaking lord. That’s one for the books.
Insert mental eye roll at my own intrusive thoughts here.
His sleeves are still rolled up, and his forearms bulge, the ink there dancing and coming alive every single time his muscles flex. This morning in his office, he resembled someone ready to go to work on a ranch tackling cows all day long or an underground fighter rather than a CEO of a multi-billion dollar company working out of a downtown high rise.
Not that all rich people have to wear suits and be clean-shaven, but my god. That beard is bearding. It’s distracting, and if that’s the case for me, a woman who thought she hated facial hair, then I wonder what it does for those who have a thing for lumberjacks.
The twinge of jealousy I feel over hypothetical women is problematic, but come on. Warrick Beanbottom is hot enough to melt all panties within a five-thousand-mile radius. He doesn’tlooklike a typical middle aged anything. I might feel like a perv for having inappropriate thoughts about him, but how can I help it when his bad boy aura practically screamscall me daddy?
Warrick might be flexing all his muscles, or maybe that’s his natural state of standing…resting muscle face…but he shakes his head when all three thugs brace for battle.
“Violence isn’t the way to solve anything, as much as I would like to punch you all in your collective noses for threatening innocent people. A woman in her eighties? Have you no shame? She could have had a heart attack.”
Ugh. I shrink back as my earlier words are quoted back to me. The fact that Warrick is here, ready to save the day after he probably drove the fastest car he owned at a speed that would have cost him his license if he was pulled over, and looks fabulous doing all of it does not for a single second mitigate my anger that all of this is even happening.
Still, he does have the world’s best timing. Whether that car is a rental and he flew here or drove here, or however he got our address and whichever he tried first, he ended up here at exactly the right time.
I refuse to think the universe is trying to tell me something. Very rarely, things just work out.
“I’ll wire you the money. Let me know how much and where to send it,” Warrick says matter-of-factly as he produces his phone.
“What the hell? I want my piece of—”
“Fair enough,” Thug Leader cuts off Violence Craver Thug. “We’re here to collect forty-two thousand eight hundred and fourteen dollars.”
“I’ll make it an even forty-three thousand. Give me the info, and I’ll have the confirmation number for you in a minute.”
Knuckle Cracker Thug, formerly Thug Three, cracks his knuckles. Again. “Or, maybe we’ll just take your car for our trouble. Collateral and all that.”
“What the fuck, Steve? Give it a break,” Leader Thug warns.
“Real names, asshole! I’m Red.”
