Page 2 of Hot Mess
In Alaska.
Alone in some bar.
And he’d sat down pretty damn close to me.
Johnny had that striking combo of a deep tan, bleach-blond hair and blue-green eyes. The tattoo over his shoulder climbed out of his thermal shirt and up one side of his neck—the shirt that clung to his sculpted chest and arms. He had a guitarist’s calloused fingers and clean, square fingernails. Nice hands, white teeth, slow to smile.
And dark, serious eyebrows that made it look like he was always thinking, like he cared about something, about you, even when he didn’t.
… And that air of fucking calculated recklessness. The one that told you he was always in control.
Thing was, I kinda had a weakness for guys like Johnny O.
Bad boys.
Not exactly my type, but… tempting.
The shots came and he slid one over to me.
And that was it.
I clinked my shot glass to Johnny’s, and when I looked into his eyes, my fate was sealed.
Granted, I sealed it myself.
Maybe I was still kinda drunk from the night before and just getting drunker, but I knew that I was doing. No one forced that shot down my throat.
If I hadn’t done that first shot with Johnny that day, no fucking doubt, things would’ve gone down differently than they did that night.
But then maybe, just maybe, I never would’ve mether.
Chapter One
Ash
Four years later…
She stood under a dripping, faded awning, lit up by the dull glow of the Chinese grocery store. It was a cold, rainy night. Unexpectedly shitty for mid-May in Vancouver. I definitely wasn’t dressed for the rain. I was soaking wet, water literally pooling in my shoes, because my friends were assholes.
And I was drunk.
I could see her pretty face as I ducked under the awning. As I did, I waved my bodyguard, Haz, off, and he melted into the shadows.
Actually, she wasreallyfucking pretty.
But pretty or not, I was so drunk, I probably would’ve walked on by if I hadn’t recognized her.
She was wearing bright yellow gumboots under a tan-colored raincoat, her long, butterscotch-blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She was picking through the bouquets of red roses on the outdoor display, her eyebrows pinched together, her lips pushed out in an annoyed pout.
A rose was a rose, right? They all looked the same to me. But she was studying them like the fate of the world depended on which ones she chose.
Then she felt me standing there, maybe, and looked up.
She looked at me.
And the Earth moved under my feet.
Maybe that was the alcohol, but still. Something happened.
