Page 37 of Truck Me

Then she runs her fingers through my hair, and her nails lightly scrape against my scalp. My eyes fall shut and a deep, rumbling groan escapes me.

I hear her suck in a breath just before she does it again, and I am done. D.O.N.E. Done.

My cock swells, and all decent thoughts or reasons to why I can’t touch are gone. All I can think about is feeling her soft fingers touch other parts of my body, and doing really dirty things to her.

Thank fuck for the cape over my lap, or else she’d see exactly where my mind has gone.

Chapter 9

Maybe being called Princess isn’t so bad after all.

Charlotte

Time moves slowly in a small town.

Maybe it’s the quiet peace that having few neighbors brings, or that there’s no nightlife to really speak of. There are no events to attend, or happy hours to relieve the day’s stress, or restaurant openings that are required to keep up appearances in our high-profile social circle.

In Beaver, all I have is nature, my family, and a few friends from high school. No one expects me to attend events or social gatherings. There isn’t a bar that offers happy-hour specials. Posey’s Lounge doesn’t run specials. Come and drink, or don’t. No one cares.

No one cares.

That’s an interesting concept to ponder. It’s not that the people living here don’t care about others. They do. It just doesn’t matter if you go out or stay home.

I lived the fast-paced city life for so long, I forgot how different it is here. In Chicago, the only way to remain relevant is to make appearances at all the events. I was relevant until Brad destroyed my life.

It’s been a little over a month since I moved home, and I’m finding I don’t care much about being relevant anymore. I miss my job, my apartment, and my best friend, but that’s about it.

I don’t miss the pressure or the constant stress it put on me.

My life in Chicago was always about doing more, more, more. I like this slower paced life a lot more than I expected I would. I’m more relaxed and carefree than I’ve been in years, even with my dad’s health declining.

To my surprise, I even like working at Mrs. Engle’s hair salon. There’s no judgment, no snooty clients, no backstabbing coworkers, and no pressure to meet sales quotas or lose my chair.

The money sucks, but my cost of living is practically nothing as long as I’m living with my parents. And since I have no social life to speak of, the arrangement is working just fine.

The only roadblock I’m struggling with is the sexy, grumpy big guy next door, Garret Mutter.

But I keep seeing cracks in his facade. Like last week when I brought food over for him. He wanted to kiss me—I felt it all the way to my bones—but he wouldn’t let himself give into it.

And then the way he moaned when I ran my fingers through his hair when he came in to get his haircut. That hit me right between the legs. Thank God I’m a woman, and my attraction isn’t on display for the world to see like a hard dick.

I spent the entire time I was cutting his hair wondering what he was hiding under the cape. Was he hard under there? Did I have the same effect on him that he was having on me?

It took every ounce of my control to not stare at his crotch when I removed the cape.

But I did learn one very important piece of information. He doesn’t hate me. It’s all an act. What I don’t know is why.

Today I hope to find out.

Since my cookies and lasagna went over so well, I decided to make him more food. I wish I could come up with other reasons to see him, but I’m at a loss.

I refuse to be that girl who bugs him constantly about my car. Not having it isn’t even that much of a hardship. I can use my parents’ car whenever I need to.

Stopping by because I was just out for a walk sounds stupid. I could always walk over with Rayne. She’s constantly wanting to go see Garret. But then she’d be there too. I want some time alone with him so we can figure out this attraction between us.

So, more food it is.

I just hope he loves chicken enchiladas and brownies as much as he loved the lasagna.