She’s so young, so full of life…
I couldn’t let her die…
Even if she made the world’s worst coffee.
Emily Garret never asked to be rescued, let alone by a walking JCrew ad whose idea of fun is probably managing his stock portfolio and watching the nightly news. Then again, she never thought she would wind upside-down in a ditch after a night having a little too much fun.
Reece Montgomery never planned on being anyone’s hero, especially the foul-mouthed, bleach-blonde barista from the local coffee shop. He thinks there’s more to Emily than her tattoos, and lip ring, but getting close means letting her into his past and meeting his ghosts.
And he’s not sure she’s ready for that battlefield.
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At seventeen Cole found herself homeless with only a beat-up Volkswagen Jetta and a bag of Goodwill clothing to her name. The only things that got her through the nights she spent parked in truck stops and cornfields were the stacks of books she checked out from the library along with her trusty flashlight. Because of the reprieve these books gave her from her troubles, Cole vowed to become a writer so she could provide the same escape to readers who needed a break the reality of their own lives.
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I hate the power he has over me, but at the same time it gives me a rush. “What the hell do you want from me, Reece?” “I don’t know. Do you?” I thought I did. I thought I was only after fun, until our night together. That was before he got inside my head. It wasn’t fun after that. “I’m going to be totally honest. It hurt when you stopped coming around.”
His jaw tightens. “That wasn’t my intention. I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“Em, you don’t understand how fucked up I am. You have no idea what you’d be getting into with me.”
He drops his head into his hands and sinks into a chair, looking very much broken. Seeing him this way pulls at my heart. I make my way to him, stopping when my knees bump his.
He looks up, lines of confusion wrinkling his brow.“What—”
“I might not know what I’m getting myself into,” I say, settling onto his lap and twining my fingers around his neck, “but don’t I deserve the chance to decide for myself if you’re worth it or not?”
“I’m not,” he says flatly. “Again, you don’t get to decide that for me.” “I don’t have the strength to keep pushing you away.”
He traces the ink down my arms. A delicious trail of shivers follow his touch. I arch my back and his eyes darken with hunger. “The war didn’t destroy me. But you, Emily Garrett, you just might.”
I kiss him, urgently, desperate to swallow his words as well as my own. Because the truth is, given my rapidly crumbling walls, he could just as easily do the same to me.
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