120 Mph

by Jevenna Willow

  Besides, there was no sense in catching her death of cold while searching for a man she’d met only once, just to give him his bowl back. Moreover, it was not as though the bowl was going to get up off that table and walk out her door. She could wait.

  Sara was getting good at waiting.

  Allowing the bowl to torment her from the table, she slipped off her shoes and headed back to her couch. She tucked her feet under her blanket and settled down to start on her book. She would’ve preferred a Friday night all-you-can-eat fish fry down at Rachel’s café, but with the way things now stood between her and the occupants of Preacher’s Bend, Sara was better off staying home and reading a book. She didn’t have the strength to fight off those who hated her.

  The more it rained, the more she read.

  The more she read, the more tired she became.

  A full hour later, Sara drifted off to sleep. Okay. Perhaps choosing a paranormal instead of a steamy romance, and one with far too many vampires sucking the blood out of far too many foolish girls, should have warned her any attention level would have diminished quickly. The book fell out of her hands onto the floor. She never heard the disturbing sound. Nor had she noticed that when it fell most of its pages ripped out of the seam. Wrath from the librarian a given.

  Sara’s week had been long, and her afternoon into evening even longer. And, as expected, an alarm that was supposed to wake her up in time for supper never did.

  Sara remained on her couch, blanket over her legs, until the following morning.

  With a huge crick in the neck, blinding sunlight hitting her square in the face, she forcibly raised her incredibly sore body from the couch and struggled to walk toward her kitchen area. Coffee was the only real cure for falling asleep on the most uncomfortable piece of furniture imaginable.

  She couldn’t simply toss the damn thing out of the apartment. Her couch cost her eight hundred dollars at an Estate Sale. For eight hundred dollars spent, it had to make it through at least five years of use. Yard sales were not the only thing she was a fanatic about. Sara loved a good Estate Sale too. The table by the door came from one. As did her dresser inside her bedroom, her lamps, and the huge trunk set in the middle of the living area she used as a coffee table and mini-storage shed.

  Everything she had was hers, and that’s all that mattered.

  About to pour a cup of vanilla laced coffee from her automatic brew, Sara jumped at the sound of the doorbell. Her sight moved hurriedly to the wall clock. Eight a.m.? Who in their right mind would dare bother an individual on the only Saturday they had off in nearly two full years?

  She grudgingly meandered toward her door, empty coffee cup in hand, same clothes on that she had on the day before—and checked the visitor through the peephole.

  All she could see through the tiny glass was a man’s back. Sara would recognize his leather jacket even in the dark. Her groan was uncontained by what her eyes became witness to.

  Her first thought was to pretend she simply hadn’t heard the doorbell. It was a lazy rain-soaked Saturday in Preacher’s Bend. But, he would probably ring it again, and she would have to pretend twice; perhaps thrice; and he didn’t seem the type to give up and leave well enough alone.

  Likely, the godly-soaked jerk would cross the hall and tell the woman opposite Sara that she had his bowl and had only come to claim it.

  Sara could have sworn the note the old woman gave her had read eight p.m. Perhaps she’d mistaken the wording and he’d meant for it to be eight a.m.

  Well, mistaken or not, Sara had this man’s possession and he was at her door. Without thought, she opened the wooden panel to one peacock arrogant, dangerously gorgeous Reverend Christian Mohr. The moment he turned around she truly wished she had pretended she’d been asleep. Chippendale was just too damn hot to handle so early in the morning.

  There was not a flaw on the man, not a hair on the head out of place, or a whisker unshaven as far as the eye could tell. He even smelled great. Strong male mingled with expensive leather and equally expensive aftershave. God! The best two smells on a man—ever.

  Sara deeply envied anyone who could look so damn good so early in the morning. She’d had a rather vivid nightmare about this, two hours ago, and most of it about this man.

  “I see you found me,” she snapped. Once the words said, she bit down on her tongue to prevent any more from exiting so foolishly, as well, rudely.

  What did he expect? She could be civil without her morning coffee?

  His smile turned to dangerous, the production of it creating the largest dimples Sara had ever witnessed. His tone of voice, smooth honey, became the icing on a rather desirable cake. Add a little whipped topping and cherry to that pile and life would be damn near perfect.

  “Yes. I did,” he admitted. “But then . . . you knew that I would.”

  Sara thought herself crazy by overanalyzing everything and reading too much into it, but she had to ask, else it would have driven her crazy. “Do you always do this?”

  His brow rose, the words to come next. “Do what?”

  “Put a person on edge from the moment you open your mouth?” she reconfirmed, albeit, as cautiously as should be warranted, as a crocked tip to his mouth made him even more handsome than before.

  “Sorry?” he asked.

  Sara shook her head. As said, her mouth was way ahead of her brain and the brain barely functioning without its morning coffee. “No. Not this time, Mr. Mohr.”

  “Reverend,” he interjected.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s actually Reverend Mohr,” he assured flatly, as though having to say it was an actual chore before eight a.m.

  “Yes, well . . . Reverend Mohr.” Sara took a huge step back, allowing the man ample room for his glowing ego to arise.

  Perhaps, as well, allow the Reverend added space he would need for all that saintly glow to reach out and save the world.

  “You don’t like me very much, do you?” he suddenly asked.

  Sara located her stalled thoughts swiftly by this rather inquisitive statement. Her eyes widened and she told him, “I don’t even know you, for me to put any real thought to if I like you—or not.”

  His dimples dug deeper on her hasty response.

  “Yet you have my bowl,” he recklessly construed.

  Sara took a deep breath, tempered her emotions, and stated, “That wasn’t my fault . . . now was it?”

  She felt the man’s gaze slide across her frumpy attire, move to her empty coffee cup, and then re-glue to her terribly creased clothing of yesterday; and all of this done as if by touch.

  Sara shivered.

  Jeans, gray Army sweatshirt, and a faked smile was all she had on. Well, at least the jeans and the Army sweatshirt were par for the course. Her smile, however, was temporarily not her own on the account of one reason and one reason only. Mr. Mohr.

  No. Excuse that. Reverend Mohr.

  “No, it is not your fault. However, may I come in so I can claim it back?” he suddenly asked.

  Sara shook her head. “I don’t think you coming into my apartment as such a great idea, Reverend.”

  “You have something against my being here?”

  Sara shook her head. “No. It’s not that. . .”

  “Then against giving a dying man a cup of coffee?”

  Sara’s brows rose in sharp contrast. “Are you,” she asked. Christ! He was using every weapon he could grasp onto to get her to let him inside her apartment? Trouble was one of them worked on her.

  “Dying?” He shook his head. “No. It’s just I haven’t had my morning coffee. The coffee pot is broken. And same as all others, I do need caffeine to function properly.”

  “Can’t you just go out and buy another pot?” she ruled sharply. Seconds later, she appalled this had sounded so mean.

  “I would have if there hadn’t been a shortage of coffee makers in town and nearly every one of them sold.”

  “Is that so?” Sara asked, wondering if he was tel
ling her the truth or simply making things up as he went along. Still, a tiny urge to smile caught her by surprise. As a Church Man, surely he would not be so bold as to lie right to her face?

  “I’m afraid this is the honest to God truth, Ms. Ruby.” The words echoed to her thoughts.

  Unrestrained by her own lack of caffeine, Sara smarted, “And Lord knows a church man would never lie, unless for a really good cause.”

  This seemed to check the Reverend tenfold. He took a step back and actually glared at her face.

  This glare, however, dissipated as the words, “Do you think we could somehow start over, Ms. Ruby?” came out of his mouth.

  Before any applicable response could be made, and before God could strike her dead for being so snippy, more were added to it. “It does seem to me—perhaps not to you, but surely to me—that you and I have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  Sara’s sigh was heavily felt out of her chest, equal to lack of proper brain function. “Do you mean by the fact that every time I feel the need to run and never look back, you seem to pull me into the folds of sinful wrath and godly condemnation?”

  Her tone was tart, brittle, and so truly unnecessary so damn early in the morning. Lack of sleep . . . and well, a whole let else lacking fueled this fire.

  Christian’s brow furrowed. He didn’t say anything right away. Perhaps the man was stewing on the information supplied him. When he did answer it was not what Sara expected from a Reverend’s mouth.

  “I don’t know what I did to piss you off, but Damnit, Sara! Really? You’re going to throw Godly condemnation into the lot before nine a.m.?”

  A quick check to her initial reaction and usual explosion of temper, Sara held her fury in as best she could. Her lips, however, had a mind of their own and told the good Reverend exactly what the brain wanted to say.

  “I would love to throw of whole lot else at you, Reverend Mohr. . . but as you can see, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Well, neither am I in any mood to hear it,” he rudely determined.

  Sara turned her head to escape such blatant scrutiny. “I should just get you the bowl. I think that would be best.”

  “What I think,” he started, stopping when he most likely thought better on what her response would be.

  “You think what?” she prodded, poking the angry bear.

  That bear answered fast. “It really doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “Oh! But I am quite certain that it does,” she declared. A command for argument set in the tone of her voice.

  He looked her square in the eyes perhaps to give her fair warning he was not a man who would back down.

  “Fine, you asked for it. Will you have dinner with me, Ms. Ruby, and say yes before I come to my senses and change my mind about you?”

  Apparently, not enough of a warning had been made. Sara dropped her empty coffee cup. The ceramic shattered into a million pieces onto her apartment floor.

  Without pause, Christian reached out his hand, grabbed her upper arm, and pulled her body toward his. He’d meant only to protect her bared feet from stepping on the sharp chips. Unfortunately, the gentlemanly action caused Sara to fall into his embrace and her hands to land directly on his shirtfront.

  With ragged breathing, and those indrawn breaths of the most exquisite cologne a man could chose to wear, she whispered out, “I . . . am . . . Oh, God!”

  She couldn’t finish the sentence as his brows arched.

  She tried in vain to push away, but he held firm his grasp on her upper arm until certain she was clear of the dangerous pieces.

  “I am so sorry, Reverend,” she finally found tongue for.

  Sara meant the impact of her hands to his chest. She was not sorry, however, for her body’s response to that impact. And he didn’t look as though he’d wanted it to happen, either.

  Regrettably, his next statement did not ease her conscience any more than asking her to dinner had. “If you won’t offer me coffee, will you at least have dinner with me?” As added incentive to her saying yes, he threw in the devilish charm of deep dimples as bait.

  How could any sane woman say ‘no’ to deep dimples?

  Yet no one ever said Sara was sane.

  “Ah, no. I don’t feel having dinner with you would be right for either of us.”

  “Why would having dinner with me not be right?” he construed.

  Sara had to look away to gather her thoughts. How could she put it delicately to this man? That he wouldn’t take literally, or use against her in some way, as every man alive has over the years.

  “God and I are a little mad at each other right now, Reverend Mohr.” There. That should certainly do the trick to get the Reverend to leave—with his bowl and his saintly security still intact.

  It didn’t work this way, however. In fact, it backfired right in her face.

  “God is not asking you to dinner, Sara. I am. Let Him find his own date.”

  “Um, yes, um . . . well . . .”

  Okay. Plan B was now called for, because plan A certainly fell flat on its face. Unfortunately, Plan B drifted pitifully to the wayside the moment Sara knew the good Reverend was not going to play fair.

  He confirmed it by saying, “You need to eat, as much as I do. It will be in a well-lighted area. And I will promise you there will be no harps, no incense, not a single angels’ wing tucked under the shirt.” He was teasing her and unfortunately it was working.

  “What about a halo?” she asked, giving Mr. Mohr his just dues until she ran out of the opportunities.

  His face became a stoic mask of determination and sincerity, the very worst kind to show her, while she so vulnerable for human companionship and having the worst week of her life.

  “It’s in the shop getting polished.”

  Sara’s brow rose. “My, you do get yourself pretty swiftly out of the gate, don’t you?” A patient tongue was not her forte`.

  Without pause he grinned. “Only when there’s a need I am on my best behavior.”

  “And this is one of those times considered as best behavior?”

  Reverend Mohr flared his nostrils and slowly let go of her arm. “Well?” He completely avoided her question, asking his own.

  “Well, what?”

  “Dinner with a witty, charming woman seated opposite me? Or another frozen tray of unrecognizable goo I have to gag down?”

  “And who, exactly, would this charming, witty woman be?” she asked, checking her growing smile.

  “Well,” he started, giving it deeper thought. “I guess if Harriet Thorn is still mad at me, I will then have to settle for you.”

  His words raised sudden curiosity in Sara. Curiosity she should have known better than to state as an actual question.

  “Why would old lady Thorn be mad at you? You did, after all, give her your rather hard-earned seven dollars and fifty cents.” She then gave him a strange look that added more to it, before saying, “Is it possible Reverend Mohr made an old lady mad?”

  The twinkle in his eye should’ve been warning enough for Sara, same as his quick wit, but unfortunately, that twinkle became fuel to an already growing fire between the two.

  “Harriet Thorn is the reason I have a freezer full of frozen dinners,” he declared, sounding irritated.

  “Then I take it you can’t cook?” she asked.

  A second later, Sara felt the awful taste of her foot in the mouth, sweetened from the pile of shit she’d been stuck in for the better part of three days.

  “As a matter of fact,” the Reverend conceded to, “I can’t cook. Now do you feel sorry for me, enough to have dinner with a man who can actually burn water?”

  Sara took a deep breath, looked him in the eyes, and said by way of shrugged shoulders, “Sure. Why not? After all, you promised no halos, harps, or angel’s wings. And if you only burn water . . . and not walk on it . . . I should be able to survive a simple dinner with you.”

  Christian’s huge grin came out unchecked. “Great. I’ll pick
you up, say around seven o’clock.” He was about to walk away, then thought better of it and added, “And, I will make certain wherever I take you to, they serve Deviled eggs and hide any potential Angel’s Food Cake. How’s that sound?”

  An uncharacteristic spurt of energy had her saying, “Sounds great, if you can pull off the task.”

  Christian’s smile fell. A half-second later, for which neither could explain—nor even wanted any explanation made—Reverend Mohr stepped forward, pulled Sara toward him . . . and he kissed her full on the mouth.

  Chapter Six

  Sara Ruby melted into Christian’s kiss. She dove headfirst into his kiss. She wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled her mouth closer to his kiss. Unfortunately, once Christian realized what he was doing, he pushed her away as if the hands were caught in wildfire and a strong breeze set at his back.

  Guilt filled him from crown to toe as Sara’s fists fell to her sides, and her eyes glared liquid fire at his face.

  “Oh . . . God!” was all he could say.

  The shame of what he’d done hit him as quick as lightning, and was just as painful.

  Sara then ripped into his hide mere seconds later. “You told me God would have nothing to do with this, Reverend.”

  God might not want to have anything to do with Christian wanting to kiss Sara, but the devil sure as Hell had a hand in it. Surely only the devil was in control of a man kissing a woman who feared him as much as she did. This was Sara Ruby. Thee Sara Ruby—Preacher’s Bend’s bad girl of the moment.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he rasped out, clearing his throat against the sudden desire to kiss her again.

  Sara turned her head to prevent any further contact. When her face came back to his view, only then did he see the effort she was making toward keeping her tears at bay.

  She looked to be struggling against everything she was ever told a Reverend should behave as. Well, Damnit! He was not the saintly, shit doesn’t stink man she thought him to be. He had his flaws. Many flaws; and those flaws too cumbersome for one man to carry alone on most days, and certainly more than could be fit into a small leather-bound journal kept in a locked desk drawer.