“Mitch sent me to pick you up. Samantha Reed, right?”
Yeah, right. Like I’m going to believe him. He’s already proven to be a liar, impersonating Mitch all because he got his old phone number. Still, I’ll test him.
“What else do you know about me?” I allow the car to pull even with me and take a look at the owner of the swoony voice.
He’s definitely not Mitch. Much bigger, bulkier, and I’m betting tall. His dark, black hair is wavy and in need of a trim. Strong, aquiline nose, rugged features and suspicious, electric-blue eyes like he can see right through me.
One more thing?
Wow.
He’s hot, and that’s a chemical reaction, not my hacker brain talking. He’s stealing my scene. His presence drains the air from my lungs as he leans toward the door and holds out a sturdy and inviting hand.
“I know you’re a proud woman, Miss Reed, and you don’t do anything you don’t want to do. You’re no victim, and if you got the short end of a stick, it’s because you chose it.”
Whoa. This palpable energy he exudes is as irresistible as a strong magnetic field. I swallow, despite my dry mouth, and lick my lips. My gaze skims the breadth of his shoulders, down the stretchy shirt hugging his well-proportioned chest, to the flat abdomen with no hint of a paunch, and beyond.
“Surely, you’re flattering me, Mister who are you again?” I let the question hang in the waning daylight of a red sun dipping into the sea of undulating weeds.
“Braden Powers.” He takes my hand easily and shakes it.
Did I approach that close? Stretch out my hand without being aware? And why am I not letting go? Holding on to the large hand overpowering my dainty fingers?
He doesn’t smile. That would have seemed insincere and smarmy. No, he gives me a curt nod and says, “Mitch sent me to take care of you. Whatever you want to eat, wherever you want to stay, just let me know, and we’ll do this—on his dime.”
“Tell me something about Mitch, so I know you’re truly his friend.” After hearing Braden’s opinion of me being proud and not a pushover, I have to at least keep up the act.
Fake it until I make it.
“That’s easy.” Braden’s manly smirk is traced on an unshaven jaw, heavy with “sex” o’clock stubble.
Let’s admit it, all inmates have sex on our minds twenty-four seven. It’s what gets us through the drought, and if Mitch is sending me a gift of “anything I want,” well, I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if he’s hung like a horse.
I wait for Braden’s answer and squirm from a combination of tingly horniness and an abundance of caution, ready to be thrown to the wind. There’s a smidgen of self-consciousness in the mix. When was the last time I brushed my teeth? Did I put on deodorant before leaving the prison? These are things I didn’t much care about when surrounded by women I’m not interested in.
Yikes. I’m wearing the yucky jeans and grungy sweatshirt they issued to me for my release. Didn’t even think to try any of my expired makeup or run a brush through my hair. Luckily, it’s straight and scraggly, whew, but wait, is he speaking to me?
I need to pay attention. He’s describing Mitch in not so flattering terms.
“The guy’s mind is brilliant, but social skills? Not so much. He was one of the early adopters of social media with TrophyShots. Pre-Instagram selfie-sharing, with private groups, collections, and browser-enabled scrapbooking. Of course, all that’s been subsumed with apps on smartphones, but Mitch has moved on to online dating, HookLinkSinker, without the dot com, now that it’s a smartphone app.”
“Anyone could have told me this by Googling him,” I counter to show hunkazoid I’m not an easy target, especially on a lonely road in northeastern California in the middle of nowhere.
“He has a tattoo of lines and dashes,” Braden says, catching me off guard, because I distinctly remember Mitch wanting me to get a matching one—which I took to mean some sort of commitment.
“Meaning?” I put a hand on my hip to signify skepticism.
“He’s unstable, like the wind over water,” Braden says, letting go of my hand.
Of course, he’s right. Mitch has a tattoo taken from the Chinese book of changes, the I Ching. It’s a hexagram symbolizing dispersion, or a strong wind blowing over water, scattering the droplets abroad.
“I wouldn’t call him unstable.” I take the opportunity to slide into the passenger seat now that Braden’s passed the test. “He doesn’t like to waste time going over the same territory. Like wind over water, he’s always stirring up trouble, or opportunities, casting a wide net.”
“So true,” Braden says. “But I’m more interested in you, Samantha Reed. What would your changes entail?”
“I haven’t matured to the point of a tattoo,” I reply. “I’m a wildflower, perhaps, a seed still to sprout.”
“How about back there? In the prison?” He hooks a thumb toward the direction I came. “Did you do any sprouting?”
