One Good Crash

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Allie Brewster has a problem, and his name is Jaden Bishop – the most impossible person she's ever met. So why, oh why, is he haunting her dreams like some kind of rock-hard shirtless nightmare?

It's all so wrong, especially when hating him feels so right…right up until Allie realizes something terribly inconvenient. Turns out, there's a lot more to her billionaire boss than meets the eye, and just maybe, she's been haunting his dreams, too.

***This new adult contemporary romance is a fun, full-length standalone novel with a guaranteed happily ever after!***

Sneak Peek

Chapter 1

I stared up at the stranger. "Excuse me?"

Standing in the mansion's open doorway, he gave me another annoyed look and repeated, "She's not here."

I gave him a look right back. I didn't care that he looked dangerous – and not only because of the tattoos. I also didn't care that he was looking at me like I was some kind of annoying bug, to be flicked off the sleeve of his faded red hoodie.

Hell, I didn't even care that the guy wore no shirt, that his hoodie was fully unzipped – or that his abs looked like something out of my deepest, darkest fantasies.

Really, I didn't.

The guy was a total ass, and he was standing between me and my best friend, wherever she was.

Already, I'd given my name – Allie Brewster. And I'd told why I was here – to pick up the friend who'd called me for a ride.

And what had the guy given me?

Jack squat.

I tried again. "But she told me she was here." I glanced around. "At this address."

"Yeah? Well maybe she told you wrong."

I bit my lip and tried to think. She'd also mentioned a public beach, but that was crazy. I'd gotten Cassidy's desperate call late last night. She wouldn't've seriously slept outside? Alone? Would've she?

Fearing the worst, I asked, "What about the beach?"

"What about it?"

I made a sound of frustration. "Where is it?"

He looked at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet and then flicked his head toward the side of the house, as if I hadn't noticed that the whole street – with its glorious mansions and manicured lawns – was sitting on some of the finest beach-front property I'd ever seen.

Through gritted teeth, I said, "I meant the public beach."

"There isn't one."

"But there has to be."

"Sure, if you drive maybe ten miles."

I shook my head. "I meant nearby, like within walking distance." When his only reply was a bored look, I added, "She said there was one."

"Yeah? Then she gave you a load of crap."

I was glaring now. "She's not a liar."

He crossed his arms, making his ab muscles shift annoyingly fine above the waistband of his tattered jeans. "I never said she was."

My teeth were grinding now. Where the hell was his shirt? He should've been wearing one. After all, I never answered the door shirtless. Okay, maybe it wasn't exactly the same thing, but I didn't care. My friend was in trouble, and this guy was no help at all.

I yanked my gaze upward and shot back. "Yes, you did."

"I did what?"

"You implied that she was a liar."

"I don’t deal in implications," he said.

I gave him a stiff smile. "That's an awful big word for a guy with no shirt."

He looked down and frowned, as if noticing his bare chest for the very first time.

Well, that made one of us.

In happier news, my comment had obviously found its mark, because the guy was still frowning. In spite of everything, I almost smiled. Take that, Hoodie Man.

He looked up and muttered, "Shit."

"What? You didn't realize you were shirtless?"

"No, I didn't realize you'd be such a pain in the ass. And where the hell is my pizza?"

What? I squinted up at him. Pizza? Was he on drugs or something? Anything was possible, given his semi-scruffy appearance. And that wasn't the only thing that made me pause.

The guy wasn't much older than I was, which put him somewhere in his late twenties. Wasn't he a little young to look so jaded? Plus, he'd been rude from the get-go.

In reply to his question, I said, "I don't know. Where the hell are your manners?"

His jaw tightened. "Manners are for pussies."

Well, that was nice.

"And," he continued, "you knocked on my door, not the other way around."

"For the last freaking time," I said, "I didn't knock. I rang the bell." Not that it really mattered, but the guy was getting seriously under my skin.

He looked past me, searching the street for who-knows-what. Finally, his gaze landed on the vehicle that had carried me here – an ancient pickup that guzzled gas like Uncle Joe guzzled beer at ball games.

Still looking at the truck, the stranger said, "No wonder you're cranked. You won't make dick driving that thing."

I didn't bother looking. That "thing" wasn't even mine. I wasn't even supposed to be driving it. But that was a problem for another time, probably after I was arrested for grand theft auto, assuming that Stuart – my jerk of an ex-boyfriend – made good on his threat.

In front of me, the stranger was saying, "So, where is it? In the truck?"

I gave a confused shake of my head. "Where's what?"

"My pizza, just like I said."

I felt my gaze narrow. He was messing with me. I was almost sure of it. "Oh, please," I said, "like a normal delivery person would knock on the door – without pizza, mind you – and demand to see her best friend."

From the open doorway, he flashed me a sudden grin. "I thought you rang the bell."

That grin – so damned cocky – sent a bolt of heat straight to my core. Worse, from the look in his eyes, he darn well knew it.

I was so distracted by his smile that it took me a moment to realize that he'd just made fun of me. "Hey!" I said. "I was speaking metaphorically."

"About what?"

As if he didn't know. "About knocking on the door."

He shrugged. "So was I."

I opened my mouth, intending to say something sharp and cutting. The only problem was, nothing came to mind. In truth, the guy had a point, and really, did it matter whether I'd knocked or rang the bell?

No. It didn't.

And I was wasting precious time.

After all, I'd driven ten hours for a reason, and it wasn't to exchange insults with whoever this guy was.

I mean, it was pretty obvious that he didn't own the house. If I were being generous, I might assume he was the owner's son or grandson. And if I were being less than generous? Well, let's just say that if he were robbing the place, he was a total dumb-ass to be opening the door at all.

I glared at up at him. Speaking very slowly and clearly, I said, "Where is she?"

The words had barely left my mouth when an electronic ringing sounded from somewhere near my feet. With a gasp, I turned to look. The noise was coming from my cell phone, which I'd set face-down on the fancy brickwork of the top step.

The phone was attached to my charger, which I'd plugged into the outdoor electrical socket before ringing the doorbell.

Yes, I was bumming a charge.

It wasn't the kind of thing I normally did, but my phone had died hours ago, and Stuart's pickup was seriously lacking in charging ports.

Desperately, I dove for the phone and yanked it free of the cord as I checked the display. It was her. Thank God.

I answered with a frantic, "Cassidy?"

But it wasn't Cassidy's voice on the other end. It was a different female, a stranger, who seemed absolutely determined to make me crazy.

Just like him.

 

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