Wasted Love with You (Wasted Love 1)

He’s not even worth a ‘hate-watch.’

I turn off the television and walk into my kitchen, opening the cabinets and finding everything except what I need at this moment.

I need wine.

Lots and lots of good wine.

And I need a long and sweet release to forget about this hellish week.

After taking a long shower, I slip into a dress and place my favorite vibrator on the charger.

Then I head outside and pull the canvas tarp away from my car. As I’m tossing it to the ground, reality slaps me hard across the face.

Shit…

The closest ‘Wine and Spirits’ store is in my old county, and I’m sure that Nate more than followed through on his threat to tell the police chief about my car.

I look over at the black Lexus that hasn’t moved since I arrived, at its fully legal license plate that’s tempting me with every passing second.

Popping my trunk, I pull a screwdriver from my emergency kit and walk over to it. I unscrew all four corners in the darkness and transfer the plate to my car—vowing to return it before the sun rises.

I drive a few miles under the speed limit on the highway, making it to the store with ten minutes to spare before closing.

I fill my bag with Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, and whatever Sauvignon Blanc wines the manager recommends at checkout.

Returning to my car, I decide to use my temporary taste of license plate freedom to take a different leg of the highway home. To drive over the speed limit in peace since I have the entire road to myself.

I’ve driven all of two miles when a bright red, candy-painted Lamborghini pulls right behind me. So close that the driver almost kisses my bumper.

What the hell?

I speed up.

He speeds up.

I switch lanes. He does the same.

I glance in my rearview mirror to throw up my middle finger, but I see a familiar face sitting in the front seat. A face that’s so familiar and gorgeous that I immediately sense that this is payback for the unwanted game I made him play weeks ago.

A surprise reverse card.

He matches me for miles, following me off the ramp and into the driveway of my new place.

I turn off the car, shutting off the lights, and he does the same.

With my heart racing a mile a minute, I sit still for several seconds, waiting for his next move, but he doesn’t reveal it to me.

Get out of the car, Autumn. Get out of the damn car.

Slinging the wine bag over my shoulder, I step out and head to the front door—hoping he’ll just stare from afar and return to his house, leaving me alone like I once left him.

I pull the keys from my pocket, struggling to pick the one that matches the lock.

When I finally grab the right one, his hand covers mine, and that simple touch sends a jolt of electricity throughout my entire body.

“Good evening, Autumn,” he says from behind me.

I slowly turn around to look at him, hating that one glance of his face disarms me so easily.

“I don’t think this evening’s drive counts as a coincidence,” I say.

“No, it’s highly calculated.”

We stare at each other in silence for several seconds, and my heart betrays me with a rhythm that is becoming synonymous with his presence.

He’s dressed down tonight, wearing dark jeans and a black V-neck shirt that exposes his well-toned muscles. His coat is nowhere in sight, and he doesn’t look bothered by the coldness in the slightest.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says. “You haven’t answered or returned my calls.”

“That’s because I’m ignoring you.”

“Oh?” He looks amused. “And why is that?”

“Because I’ve always known how to read a room,” I say. “I don’t need to wait until the walls close in on me.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he slowly looks me over, turning me on against my will, making me forget the task at hand.

Get inside the house. Now.

“I would never ignore you if you called me,” he says. “And if you ever sent me a text, I wouldn’t let too much time pass before returning it.”

“Well, I’m not the second coming of Satan, a potential vampire, or a criminal mob boss, so my priorities are a bit different from yours.”

He looks like he’s on the verge of laughter, but he doesn’t let it last for long.

“I think you should consider a career in comedy or literature someday,” he says. “I think you’d be quite good at it.”

“I hope you didn’t chase me down on the highway to tell me this.”

“No.” He notices the strap of my wine bag slipping and pushes it onto my shoulder. “I’m simply curious about why you backed away from your interview at the last minute.”

The look in his eyes tells me that he already knows why—that he’s well aware of his reputation—but I give him a reason anyway.