Jardin's Gamble (Haven, Texas 9)

1

Thea Garrison had shit luck.

Fate was basically a bully and she enjoyed giving Thea constant wedgies. Sometimes, she even swirled her head in a dirty toilet.

Don’t laugh. That nearly happened once. Although that had more to do with a three-day flu and a pushy six-year-old than bad juju.

Today was supposed to be awesome.

She had on her best outfit. Like all her other clothes, it was from the thrift shop, but the black pencil skirt and loose white blouse actually appeared brand new and hadn’t needed altering. Which, with her boobs and butt was practically a miracle.

Plus, she’d actually gotten her brothers to school with time to spare and all their clothes on. This was no mean feat. Usually she screeched up to the curb with only a few minutes to spare, one boy with no shoes or the other wearing his shirt backward. Once, Ace hadn’t been wearing any underwear. She’d just pretended not to hear him when he’d told her.

That had been the same day as her job interview. The one she’d been certain she wouldn’t get since she had very little experience. Luckily for her, Jardin Malone had run through so many personal assistants he hadn’t had much choice but to give her a try. He wasn’t an easy guy to work for. Uptight, blunt, and a perfectionist.

He was also hot as hell. Although she pretended not to notice, he was her boss after all.

Thea was determined to keep this job. It paid better than anything else she could get, plus she was good at it. She’d stuck at it for over two months now. Apparently, his lordship’s previous personal assistant had lasted just a week.

Nothing was going to ruin today. Not those snobby-ass bitches at the boys’ school calling her names behind her back. Not the fact she was basically an outcast at work because of her secondhand clothing and a car that should have gone to the great junk yard in the sky a long time ago.

She’d even thought she’d be early enough to splurge on a coffee and one of those sticky buns at the food truck.

Life had been looking pretty sweet. Until two minutes ago when smoke had started pouring out of her hood.

Attempting to ignore it, she kept driving. She was still fifteen minutes from work. It was early, so there wasn’t too much traffic on the road. And she wanted that sticky bun. She could taste it.

“Come on,” she muttered to herself, praying the smoke would magically disappear.

Might happen. Maybe.

If fate wasn’t a bully and a bitch.

The car started to shudder. A horn honked at her, no doubt noticing the plume of smoke erupting from the hood of her car. Or maybe it was just that she’d slowed down to a crawl.

She hit her blinker and moved off the road onto the wide shoulder.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” She slumped forward, resting her forehead on the steering wheel. Come on, Thea. Big girl panties. You can deal.

She undid her seatbelt and climbed out of the car. After opening the hood and waving to clear the smoke from in front of her face, she stared down at the motor.

Fuck a duck.

Like she had any clue what she was doing. She reached for the cap where most of the smoke seemed to be originating from. Her skin instantly seared from the heat, and she snatched it back with a yelp of pain, holding the wrist with her other hand. Tears threatened.

Deep breaths, Thea.

You’ve had worse. This is nothing. Breathe.

The sound of an engine approaching had her pushing her injured hand behind her back. She’d learned early in life it never paid to show any weakness. She stared in surprise as a huge, black truck pulled up beside her tiny, beat-up car. This truck screamed masculinity. It was the type of truck a man would buy if he were trying to overcompensate for being small in other areas.

Her mouth dropped open as the door opened and one of the biggest, most rugged-looking guys she’d ever seen in her life stepped out.

Okay she was pretty sure he hadn’t bought this truck to compensate for being overly small in other areas.

At least she sure hoped not or else there was something wrong with this world.

The guy was a giant. She barely reached five foot three and weighed close to a hundred and fifty pounds. This dude was at least a foot taller and twice as wide. He could probably bench-press he

r and not even get winded.

That was fucking hot.

Even hotter was the idea of him picking her up and pressing her against the wall while fucking her.

Down, girl.

“Hello? Hello, miss? You okay?” His voice was gravelly. Low. Sexy as fuck. He had on a black T-shirt and black jeans along with motorcycle boots that were . . . yep, black.

“Seems to be the theme,” she muttered.

“Sorry? Miss, are you okay?” the deep voice asked again.

She continued to stare at him, taking in the ink that was revealed on his forearms, in swirling, green patterns. The trimmed beard, those piercing, blue eyes and jet-black hair.

Mama save me.

He frowned and stepped closer to her. Suddenly, he reached out and placed his palm over her forehead.

“Hey, what are you doing?” She stepped back, nearly tripping in her heels. She still wasn’t comfortable wearing shoes this high, but she thought they made her legs look long and thin rather than short and dumpy.

He grabbed her arm, saving her from falling flat on her ass. Which would have been another injury to add to her still throbbing hand. That was going to be a bitch to type with.

“Careful there,” he rumbled. He scowled down at her feet. “What the fuck are you wearing on your feet?”

“Shoes.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward as though searching for patience. “Shoes, huh? Looks more like instruments of torture.”

He wasn’t wrong there. They were black stilettos with a series of straps that ran up her feet. They looked sexy as fuck, but comfortable they were not.

Didn’t help that they were a size too small for her and by the end of the day they’d be pinching horribly.

Why had she worn them? Why hadn’t she worn her perfectly comfortable, if boring, ballet flats?