Where did she come from?
And more importantly—how do I get her out of my truck, out of my head, before she imprints herself on me like some kind of psychotic, sexy parasite?
Fucking feral freak.
She’s still flirting and nearly fondling herself when I finally get fed up.
“Are you serious right now?” I snap, eyes locked on the road.
“What?” she shrugs, all fake innocence and big eyes, like she’s not out here mentally stripping me for sport.
“You don’t even know my name and you’re—” I wave a hand in her general direction, searching for words that don’t start withGod help me,and end withon my knees.
“What’s wrong, Bear?
“You can stop calling me Bear. My name is Eli.”
Without missing a beat, she grabs my free hand off the steering wheel and forces a shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Eli. Even though I wouldn’t peg you for an Eli.”
I glance over at her, eyebrows raised. “You thought my name would be what, exactly?”
She bites her lip, thinks a little too hard about it, and finally smirks. “I don’t know. Something like Kofi. Or Butch. Something that sounds big and majestic.”
“Butch sounds majestic to you?”
“In a ‘fix your carburetor and knock the cobwebs off your coochie’ kinda way? Absolutely.”
I blink at her. “What iswrongwith you?”
“Oh, come on, Bear! You don’t like a woman who speaks her mind?”
“You don’t speak your mind. You sayobscenethings. Loudly. It’s like you want the world to know you’re a freak.”
She waves it off like I’m the one being unreasonable. “It’s just the two of us in this truck! Who are you afraid will hear?”
Then she tilts her head, eyes dancing with mischief. “I thought mountain men were supposed to be all sexy and void of sexual inhibitions. Like cavemen with an endless supply of Cialis. You, sir, seem like you’re afraid of something. Pinned up or whatever.”
I sigh, exhausted. “Can we please try the quiet thing again? Just for a little while?”
She leans back, grinning. “If you let me play music.”
Music. This is…safer.“Fine. Nothing loud.”
“Almost time for hibernation, huh? Gotta keep things low-stimulation?”
I don’t respond. I have no words for this woman. Not because I’m a man of few words—though I am—but because she’s theembodimentof too much.
“What song’s on repeat on your phone right now?” she asks.
“I don’t play music on my phone.”
“Huh?”
“Did I stutter?”
She blinks. “You might as well have. How do you listen to music?”
“The way normal people listen to music. Records. You know, vinyl?”
