Building Strength & Taking The Plunge: A New Release & A Preorder

I'm shamelessly self-promoting my current NEW RELEASE Building Strength Book 9 of the SEAL Team Heartbreakers). The book came out March 17, 2020.

My next release Hot SEAL, Taking The Plunge, is due out September 1, 2020.  I thought I'd post the first chapter of each book so you can get a peek at the characters and the stories. And don't ignore the other links to other blogs in this post. There will be other excerpts of Building Strength you can access through links I've posted to 2 other blogs.

Enjoy!!!

BUILDING STRENGTH

The Blurb: 

Sleeping with a man before getting to know him isn’t the smartest blueprint for building a relationship.

But after being celibate for so long, when lightning strikes redhead Moira McKee embraces being impetuous for once in her life and decides to go with it. Even if Navy SEAL Lieutenant Sam Harding never calls her again, he will at least have replaced the painful memories of her first (and last) intimate experience.

Sam Harding has a reputation for being a hard-ass at work and at play. He has two unbendable rules: No strings. Keep it casual. But when he meets Moira at a charity dinner, he’s torn between the desire to take her to bed and the need to protect her.

After a night of terrific sex, neither knows where things are going. But then Moira finds a dead body on the grounds of the hotel, and Sam can’t walk away before he’s sure she’s safe.

At least that’s what he tells himself. But as the threat he’s sensed becomes real, he’s powerless to protect her. It’s up to Moira to fight for her survival…and his.

An Excerpt: 

Out of place and underdressed, especially for a ritzy, high-society evening at the Hotel Del Coronado. Moira rolled her head on a neck stiff with tension and took a deep breath. Her off-the-rack evening gown, with its white lace bodice, three-quarter length sleeves, and pleated maroon floor-length skirt had seemed classic when she tried it on, but now seemed…plain.

She was a high school art teacher, not one of the businessmen and local politicians clustered in elegant, laughing groups around the room. And besides, she wasn’t here to compete with San Diego’s elite, but to accept an award for her school for raising twenty-five thousand dollars for the neonatal unit at South County General.

The soft roar of voices pulsed through the cavernous ballroom like a wave of static. The small string quartet onstage competed against it as Moira wove through the crowd and between the round tables, each with a beautiful centerpiece and set to seat ten.

Her attention was drawn to a man leaning against one of the pillars that separated the central part of the room from the bank of windows looking out over the bay.

If there was a reason for a man to wear a tux, he epitomized it. The dark jacket was tailored to his broad shoulders, the stiff collar of his shirt looked snow-white against his tanned skin, and his satin vest, embroidered with some kind of pattern, clung to a torso, lean but not skinny. And she’d bet there was muscle beneath that sexy, classy exterior.

His sharp, narrow-eyed gaze scanned the room as though he expected a fight to break out at any moment. His chiseled features were set in a frown that drew his dark brows together over a nose straight as a blade.

She itched for a drawing pad and pencil to capture that expression.

A woman approached him, brave soul. Though his features relaxed into polite lines, he didn’t smile. They exchanged a few words.

Over top the woman’s head, he looked up suddenly and pinned Moira like a butterfly to a board. Her heart leapt and her breath caught. Heat flared in her cheeks, and she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose before turning away to sit at the assigned table she’d finally located.

Elizabeth Travis, one of the hospital board members, and founder of Sarah’s Dreams, took the stage and approached the microphone. “If everyone will please be seated, we’ll get things underway.”

Four couples found their places at her table. With her attention focused on the stage Moira sensed someone slipping into the seat to her right, but was distracted when the blonde woman beside her offered her hand. “Denise Clayborn, and this is my husband, Nelson.”

As she leaned to shake the woman’s hand, Moira’s skirt brushed Denise’s, and she noticed the colors were barely a half a shade different.

“It seems wine is the popular color this season,” Denise commented.

“It would seem. I’ve seen several other dresses close to the same shade since I got here. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Moira McKee.”

Denise had a friendly smile. “A strong, Scottish name, and you have the lovely red hair to go with it.”

“Thank you.” Moira touched the curling tendrils surrounding her face. She’d decided to not straighten her hair for this event, and was regretting it. No matter what she did to control the naturally curly mop, it willfully escaped every pin, barrette or ponytail holder, and fuzzed and curled at even a hint of rain. She’d managed to pin at least part of it atop her head and allowed the rest to curl down her back. “It’s been the bane of my existence since I was born,” Moira said with a grin.

The woman laughed. “And how long have you known Sam?”

Moira raised her brows. “Sam?”

Denise gestured toward the man sitting next to Moira, and she turned to acknowledge her tablemate.

Of course it would be him. Nerves jittered in the pit of her stomach. He wasn’t so much handsome as he was compelling and very masculine. And he smelled delicious.

“Sam Harding,” he introduced himself.

“Moira McKee,” she said, offering her hand.

“Moira,” he repeated her name, his tawny eyes fixed on her face. He had a tempered grip, neither crushing her hand to show dominance nor holding it like it was spun glass. Her breathing hitched at having all that intense masculinity directed at her.

“Are you still in the Navy, Sam?” Nelson asked, interrupting Sam’s intent study of her features.

“Yeah.” Sam released her hand.

“How many deployments?”

“I don’t keep track.”

The unexpected humility in the way he avoided answering caught her attention.

“How long do you intend to stay in?”

“As long as they’ll have me.”

“Well, your dad has two other Hardings to follow in his footsteps and pass the firm on to. And with your law degree, you can always transfer over to the Jag Corps when you decide you’ve had enough.”

Sam raised a brow. “I like what I do just fine.”

There was a bland note in his voice, but the heavy-lidded glance he flashed in Nelson’s direction had an edge.

“Moira, do you know Estelle and Joe Patterson?” Sam asked as he gestured to the couple directly across the table from them.

“No.” She nodded to the couple.

“And Doris and Landon Thompson.”

She leaned forward to nod at that couple as well. As she listened to him answer Landon Thompson’s polite enquiry about his family, she wondered how a guy who hobnobbed with rich businessmen like they were neighbors had ended up a Navy SEAL. There had to be a story there.

Moira breathed a sigh when Elizabeth Travis called the crowd to order for the second time now that several guests had taken their places on the stage.

She recognized the mayor and the head of South County General Hospital from their pictures in the paper, and while she didn’t know the other two, she was willing to bet they were going to pay for their meal before they got to eat it. Put four bureaucrats on a stage and every one of them had to make a speech. It was a given.

She reached for the glass of water at her place and took a sip.

“What do you do for a living, Moira?” Sam asked.

“I’m a high school art teacher.”

“Tough duty?”

“Sometimes. And sometimes, when a gifted student lives up to his or her potential and gets a scholarship for college, it’s all worth it.”

“I can understand that. I’m in the business of pushing men to live up to their potential.”

He had Navy SEAL written all over him. She’d have figured it out on her own even if Nelson Clayborn hadn’t pretty much outed him. “Do you train them?”

“Sometimes.”

She nodded. She’d read some articles about SEALs. If he wasn’t involved in training, he’d be taking out threats in any number of places across the globe.

They fell silent as the first speaker, the mayor, rose and strode to the podium. He welcomed the attendees and gave a short intro about the history of Sarah’s Dreams, Elizabeth Travis’s nonprofit organization that raised money for programs to benefit hospitalized children. It was named for her daughter, who had died at eighteen months from complications during surgery to repair a congenital heart defect.

Moira had researched the woman and the organization before encouraging the student body to do the fundraiser. This year’s project was raising money for the Neonatal Care Unit of one of the smaller hospitals in San Diego, the hospital where she volunteered.

The speeches went on, and she glanced over to find Sam watching her more than once. But he was way out of her league. His family must have money, plus he was an officer in the Navy. It didn’t take a mental giant to see he was used to being in charge.

As soon as the last speech ended the crowd breathed a sigh of relief and a swarm of wait staff appeared with rolling carts and large racks and round trays to serve the meal.

“How did you get looped into coming to this thing?” Nelson asked from across the table, his attention focused on Sam.

There was a challenge in Nelson’s voice that made Moira uncomfortable.

Sam shrugged one broad shoulder dismissively. “My father and brothers are out of town for a few days, and my mother asked me to come so I could deliver their donation and represent their law firm.”

“I got looped into coming to represent my school as well,” Moira said to the table at large, backing him up.

He leaned close and rested an arm along the back of her chair. She breathed in the clean, woodsy scent of his soap or cologne. “Maybe we can change a boring evening into something more interesting.”

Was he really putting the move on her after only five minutes of conversation? The experience was surprising and new to her, and she stumbled around, searching for a reply. “I don’t know you, Sam.”

“You can get to know me when we dance later.”

“I don’t know how to dance, unless you count the jumping around like a maniac that everyone does in junior high.”

His brows rose. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“No problem. I can teach you.”

Her heart tap-danced against her ribcage in response to the velvety dark heat in his tone.

“I’m sure you’re fast on your feet, but I like to move slowly.”

He chuckled. That’s all it took for her breathing to hitch, and she swallowed. His smile was as devastating as she expected it to be. Every inch of her skin seemed to have grown nerves she’d never been aware of, and every one of them quivered in anticipation of when he would touch her.

“I can do slow, Moira.”

She squeezed her thighs together tight as sexual heat rushed to intimate areas of her body. Jesus! She bet he could do it all. And that was the problem. She’d feel safer cutting her teeth on someone who hadn’t or couldn’t. She was saved from replying when a waiter slid a plate in front of her.

Moira unfolded her napkin and spread it over her lap. The crab cakes looked delicious, but she was more than willing to eat now and pay for them tomorrow. She cut into the patty, and savored the bite, humming in appreciation while she caught Sam’s quick glance.

She attempted to move the conversation into safer territory. “What do you do besides dance when you’re not deployed?”

“If I’m not on duty at the base I run, fish, surf, and sail. I have a sailboat at one of the docks, and I take her out as often as I can. If you’re interested, you could go out with me on Sunday.”

“How do you know you like me well enough to be”—she almost said trapped—“on a boat with me for several hours?”

“The whole point of going sailing is to enjoy the wind, the surf, and the sun. It’s peaceful out there. Though I bet with your beautiful pale skin…” He brushed his fingertips over her arm just above her wrist, igniting trickles of sensation along the path “…you have to layer on sunscreen.”

She swallowed. “Yes, I do. I wear my wet suit when I go to the beach for a swim so I don’t have to apply sunscreen.”

“Then you could wear your wet suit and a hat and not have to worry about the sun while I teach you a little about sailing.”

To keep her mind from wandering to what else he could teach her while on his boat, she turned her attention to the last bite of crab cake on her plate, and just in time.

A moment later wait staff whisked away their empty plates and replaced them with their entrées. She’d gone with the chicken instead of the filet mignon because the crab cakes were the treat, but it didn’t keep her from eyeing Sam’s steak. She concentrated on the grilled asparagus to take her mind off the red meat. She’d come too far to backtrack now.

Sam studied the slope from Moira’s shoulder to her breast. Shit, she was built—slender, compact, and all that glorious red hair… “What do you do in your spare time?”

“I’m an art teacher, but also an artist. I do work on commission. Plus, I swim every day at five before school, and I go up to the NICU unit at the hospital twice a week to cuddle the babies and feed them.”

Alarm bells went off in his head. He wasn’t ready for marriage or children. “How long have you been doing that?”

“Two years.”

He paused in cutting his steak to lean forward and rest his forearm on the table. “Why do you do it?”

“Because cuddling benefits their development. Babies who are cuddled have better sleeping habits and are less fussy. And the parents who have to work, who can’t be there all day to cuddle or hold them, need the extra support.

“When my youngest brother was born, I was twelve. He was premature, had lung issues and feeding issues. The doctors didn’t expect him to make it, so they sent him home to die. But we held him constantly and fed him through a tube. He’s fourteen now, strong, fit and plays baseball.”

“So, you visit the unit and cuddle babies.”

“It takes my thoughts away from school issues and focuses them on what’s important, giving the babies the kind of human contact they need to survive.”

“Plus, your school raised money for the NICU?”

“Yes. The kids really got on board and did several fundraisers. They’ve worked hard all year. I voted for a couple of students to come and accept the award on behalf of the school, but my principal wanted me to do it.”

He turned toward her and his leg brushed hers. “I bet you had a lot to do with organizing the fundraisers.”

“The students worked to make things happen.”

Yeah, but he’d lay odds her organizational skills kept things running. “Moira, you inspired an entire school to get behind a project. That’s no small feat.”

She seemed uncomfortable with the praise and shrugged one shoulder while she chewed an asparagus tip, then took a drink. “The student body learned from the experience, and the school system got good press.” And she’d also received several commissions because of the work. She turned toward him. “And what about you? Wouldn’t it have been easier to be a lawyer than become a SEAL?”

He didn’t really want to talk about himself, but there was something about her that elicited trust. “My father and I had a deal. If I finished college, I could do whatever I wanted afterward. So I went to college, finished in three years, enrolled in law school, and passed the bar. The next week I enlisted in the Navy.”

“Was that the plan all along?”

“Yeah. I got the law degree in case I needed a backup plan some time down the road. I joined the Navy because it’s what I always wanted.” Had he ever told a woman all this?

“Did your father realize you were still going into the Navy?”

“He thought I’d change my mind once I finished school.”

“When did you go into the SEALs?”

“Right after boot camp.”

Her blue-green eyes rested on his face, her glasses magnifying their expression. “Would you say, then, that you’re just a little bit of an overachiever?”

He laughed at her droll tone. “Maybe a little.”

“And now you’re a team leader.”

“Yeah.”

“A first lieutenant?”

“How do you know?”

“You have a law degree, so you came into the service as an officer. But you’re not old enough to have been in long enough to have the rank of captain. What’s your next goal?”

He captured one arrant red curl, finding its texture interestingly coarse, and guided it back into place down her back. Her dress had an intriguing V there that ended just between her shoulder blades, revealing velvety skin that was a temptation he couldn’t resist. She froze as he brushed the back of one finger against the stretch of pale soft skin. “To get you out—” He paused and her heart leaped and hammered against her ribs until he finished the sentence—“on the dance floor right after they give out the awards.”

She looked away afraid he might read her reaction and reached for her water glass again. “You may find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. My size seven feet might feel like boat paddles when they step on your toes.”

“I’m not worried. You’re an overachiever, too.”

She pushed her plate away, half the food still on it, and shook her head at the server when dessert was offered, then turned to Sam and raised one perfectly arched, red brow. Damn, but she was beautiful. “I’m not even in your league, Sam.”

He studied her face. “I think it may be the other way around.” Had he pushed too hard? And why the hell was he pushing like this?

Because she was the first woman he’d been interested in a long time. And all her soft, creamy skin was beckoning. Was she as soft all over as that strip down her back? Was the hair between her legs as red as all those curls topside? It took all his control to keep his gaze from wandering from her face to the generous breasts beneath the lace of her evening gown. “We can take a walk along the beach instead if you’d rather.”

She bit her lip and her hand shook a little as she pushed the bridge of her glasses back up her nose. In that moment, she seemed…vulnerable and uncertain.

They both looked up as a tall, dark-haired young man paused next to Moira. “Mrs. Travis has asked that you join her for a few minutes before she gives out the awards, Ms. McKee.”

Surprised, she hesitated. “All right.” She rose and Sam rose with her. “Please excuse me.”

If you really like what you've read and want more excerpts, here are links to two other blogs I've posted with excepts:  
https://mymusesmusings.blogspot.com/2020/04/steamy-rom-com-2020-future-releases.html

https://mymusesmusings.blogspot.com/2020/03/a-new-release-building-strength-book-9.html

The links to purchase the book:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/ebook/dp/B084DZX9QY/

Apple:  https://books.apple.com/us/book/building-strength/id1497450951

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/building-strength

Barnes and Noble: 

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/building-strength-teresa-j-reasor/1136304094/

Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1002912

TAKING THE PLUNGE

The Blurb: 

Rylie Stewart, daughter of SEAL legend, Admiral ‘Black Jack’ Stewart, is in trouble. Big trouble. Eight and a half months through a difficult pregnancy, she’s kept her silence about who the father of her unborn child is, but the closer she gets to giving birth the more the pressure mounts for her to reveal the man’s name. But she’s been a SEAL’s daughter for twenty-three years and she’s as good at keeping secrets as her father is.

Navy SEAL Eric ‘Viking’ Anderson has just come off a six-month deployment to find Rylie on his doorstep with news. He’s about to become a father, and she wants a promise in case something happens to her during the birth. Eric’s more than willing to give her his word, but he wants something in return. Another chance with the woman he loves. And this time they’re going to do things his way. No more hiding and no more secrets.

But there’s one truth he can’t reveal to Rylie without further damaging her rocky relationship with her father. He suspects Black Jack knew about their affair and deployed Eric to end it. But now Rylie’s carrying his baby, the Admiral will play hell getting rid of him again. His missions: To put a wedding ring on Rylie’s finger, making their relationship permanent, and to be the best dad in the world for their baby boy.

An Excerpt: 

CHAPTER 1

Rylie hammered the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.

She wanted to kill Black Jack Stewart.

She wanted to jab a knife between his ribs and twist it.

 Because that’s what every word he just said to her had felt like. He’d done things in the past that hurt her, but what he said to her tonight… He might as well have called her a whore.

And the funny thing was, all she did was wear a blouse that fell off her shoulder and flashed a hint of cleavage.  And he went off like a rocket on the fourth of July.  

Tears erupted, blurring her vision. She could barely breathe as they flooded up from the depths of her heart. She whipped her Toyota into the nearest parking slot—and slammed on the brakes as a shadow shape rose up in front of her. 

The sound of crunching metal turned her stomach and she jerked the steering wheel to the right.  It was something big.

Dear God! What if she’d hit someone? She shoved the gear shift into park, released her seat belt, and leapt out of the car, swiping away the tears so she could see.

A large motorcycle lay on its side like a dying dinosaur. The rear fender and wheel were crushed, the tire flat, and the exhaust pipes were flattened.  The chrome had a just-polished gleam, and the red metallic paint decorating the gas tank and fenders was spotless. The word “Indian” in gold cursive embellished the tank.

Can this day get any worse?  

As much as she wanted to blame her father for this, it was her own damn fault. She’d let her emotions get the better of her, and she should have pulled over miles ago. She should be grateful that at least the gorgeous machine was parked and no one was hurt.

She took her cellphone out of her purse and took a quick picture of the license plate on the back fender. She’d never seen a motorcycle like it before. What if it was some kind of custom-made, one-of-a-kind bike? What if it couldn’t be fixed? Her stomach pitched.

The stores along this stretch of street were already closed except for McP’s Pub, a hangout for the local SEAL teams because it was owned by a retired SEAL.

Explaining this mangled, formerly pristine bike to anyone of the SEAL persuasion wasn’t what she needed right now.  She sent up a murmured prayer. Please don’t let this bike belong to a SEAL.

She stashed her cell phone in her purse again and threw the strap over her shoulder, locked the car, and started up the street. She heard male laughter coming from the walled outdoor eating area even before she reached the front door to the pub.

Her phone rang, and she paused to pull it out again.

Her father. She’d heard all she wanted to hear from him. The hurt he inflicted tonight was eating away at her already, and she wasn’t about to give him another shot at her.

She declined the call and strode into the pub, pausing for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. One of the waitresses approached her, but before the woman could seat her, she asked, “Do you happen to know anyone here who rides a motorcycle?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Yeah.” Nerves dried her mouth, and she swallowed. Some men treated their vehicles better than their girlfriends.  If the owner of the bike was like that, she could be in trouble.  “I just hit it, and I’m looking for the owner.”

“There’s a guy here…Eric Anderson...who rides some kind of specialty bike.”

Oh, shit!

“Could you point him out to me?”

“He’s with a group of his friends out back. Maybe I should just tell him you need to talk to him.”

Facing one angry probable-SEAL sounded bad enough without adding the supportive outrage of a group.  “I’d appreciate that.”

“You look a little pale. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll bring you a drink of water first.”

“Okay.”

Rylie didn’t realize how nervous she was until her butt hit the seat. What if he got irate and abusive?

As abusive as her own father’s verbal attack. All the awful things he spewed came back to hurt her again.

She sipped the water, but it didn’t dull the replay of her father shouting about how cheap she looked. She gazed into the clear liquid in her glass, but could find no explanation for why he’d attacked her so viciously.

She wanted to go home and lick her wounds instead of sitting here dealing with an accident and a justifiably angry SEAL.

Where exactly had the picture Black Jack painted of her come from?

She wasn’t anything like what he described. She had only two long-term boyfriends all the way through college. She didn’t go out cruising bars and picking up guys. She didn’t get drunk and sleep around. Was that really what he thought of her?

Two men walked in from the exterior tables area, but she barely registered them as they crossed to the bar.

She sipped more water, mostly because she needed something to do with her hands than anything else.

“Hey,” a deep, masculine voice said from directly in front of her.

She braced herself and looked up, and up, trailing over snug jeans hugging long legs and narrow hips, and on to a lightweight gray T-shirt that did nothing to disguise muscular abs and pecs. The sleeves banded tight around upper arms bulked from either manual labor, lifting weights, or both, and his biceps flexed as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from her.

Her mouth went dry as dust as her attention snagged on his chiseled jaw, the perfect shape of his mouth, and his pale blue eyes, though his face was saved from being too perfect by the minute crook of his nose. Had it been broken sometime in the past?

His quick smile had a punch to it. He extended his hand. “Eric Anderson.”

Oh, shit! She clasped it briefly. “Rylie Stewart.”

“Tina said you want to speak to me.”

Rylie took another sip of water, then set the glass down. “Mr. Anderson… Do you own a red motorcycle with the name Indian painted on the gas tank?”

His expression flattened and his eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

Drawing a shaky breath, she said, “I’m sorry, but I just hit it.  With my car, I mean.” That was stupid. What else would I have hit it with?  “I’ve damaged the back wheel and fender and the exhaust pipes. But I have insurance, and I promise I’ll do whatever it takes to get it fixed.”

He moved so quickly she jerked and caught her breath.

***

 Eric was up out of his seat, out the door, and jogging down the street before he even thought about it. The bike lay on its side and had obviously been knocked forward a couple of feet.

Jesus! The damage was just as bad as she’d described, except it was probably also scraped and scratched all to hell on the other side. She really hit it hard. It was a wonder it hadn’t been knocked into the car in front of it. Jesus! This was his only ride.  And he loved this bike. Loved the grace and power of her. She’d been beautiful. Damnit!

And she’d cost nearly ten thousand dollars.

“Fuck!” He breathed the word aloud to expel some of his frustration and grief.

“I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t been aware of her approach and whipped around to face her.

“How the hell did this happen?” he demanded, barely in control.

“I had something in my eye and my vision was blurred. I whipped into the parking space to get out of traffic and overshot the space. Do you want to call a wrecker?”

No. He didn’t want to call a wrecker. But he’d have to.

He jerked out his phone. At least he knew where to have them take his bike. The only place, the only person he’d trust it to. “Todd, I have a problem. My Indian has been hit by a car and has major damage to the rear end.  Can you pick it up?”

Todd’s curses were worse than his own. When he finally wound down, he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It was parked, I wasn’t on it.”

“What the hell happened?” The man’s anger sounded so much like his own, he almost smiled.

“The rear bumper, wheel and exhaust are crushed. And there are probably plenty of scrapes and dings on the side I can’t see.”

“Shit! Where are you?”

“Just down the street from McP’s.”

“Dan’s on a delivery, so I’ll call him to come pick her up.  You’ll need a ride to get to work, won’t you?”

“Yeah.” 

“I’ll take care of it. I have a rebuilt nearly ready to go. She needs detailing, but she’ll get you to and from until yours is fixed. I can drop it off at the base in the morning. Tell me the guy who hit you has insurance.”

“Yeah, she does.”

“Blind bitches,” Todd muttered with feeling.

Eric swung his attention back to the woman responsible for the damage.  Her thick, dark hair was caught back in a clip, the defined widow’s peak and her high cheekbones exaggerating the heart shape of her face. And now he’d calmed down, he noticed the faint smudges of eye makeup beneath dark eyes he’d thought were brown in the dull lighting of the pub. He now realized they were the darkest blue he’d ever seen, and surrounded by thick, black lashes.  She had a mouth lush and wide enough to give the Naked Warrior sculpture a hard on.

“It was just an accident,” he heard himself say, and her head came up and those dark eyes pinned him. 

Todd laughed. “She must be hot as hell for you to say that.”

“Time’s a-wastin’, my friend, and I have a steak with my name on it waiting for me at McP’s. I’ll have to call and tell them to keep it warm for me until we deal with this.”

“Dan’s on the way.”

Eric closed the call and dialed a familiar number. “Hey, Tuck.  Ask the waitress to hold my steak until I come back in. I need to take care of something out here.”

“Don’t tell me you’re answering a fifteen-minute booty call from some anonymous woman.”

“No, dumbass.” If he told him his bike had been trashed, all the guys would pile out on the street to check it out, and Rylie Stewart didn’t look up to dealing with the whole team right now. “I’ll explain later.”

He closed out the call.

She hadn’t mentioned the damage to her car, but he could see the grill was dented and the Toyota emblem mashed in. Luckily, though, nothing seemed to be leaking from beneath the vehicle, so it was probably still roadworthy.

“When Dan gets here, I’ll ask him to look at your car and make sure it’s okay. You’ll need to have a little body work done to the front end.”

She moved to take a look at the damage and rested a hand on the hood. “Are you sure your bike can be fixed?”

He glanced down at the crushed wheel and exhaust system. “Todd’s a magician when it comes to fixing motorcycles. But it won’t be cheap.”

She opened her tiny purse and withdrew a small note pad, a pen, and her insurance card, and wrote down her information.  “Here’s my insurance information, my contact number, and my driver’s license number. I’ll call my insurance company first thing tomorrow morning and notify them of what happened. Here’s my business card. If you have any trouble, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

“You’re not just going to drive off without letting Todd look at your car. Stay and let him look at it.” He looked down at her business card. Rylie Stewart. Where had he heard that name before?

He didn’t have time to ask, because he spotted the tow truck with Todd’s logo painted across the front. It drove past them until the trailer was positioned properly, came to a halt, and the caution lights of both truck and trailer started flashing.

A man leaped out of the truck. “Hey, Viking. Dad said someone ran over your girl. I was on a delivery so he told me to come pick her up.” Short, stocky and built like a street brawler, Danny Davis strode toward the motorcycle and whistled. “Damn, that’s a sickening sight.”

Eric glanced at Rylie and saw her bite her lip.

“At least the damage is limited to the back end. We’ll take care of her for you.”

“Thanks, man.”

“We ought to be able to get her onto the trailer. Let me lower the ramp. You can get on one side, I’ll get on the other, and we’ll half-roll, half-lift her. Let the front tire do all the heavy lifting. We’re going to tilt her onto it and roll her up the ramp.”

His plan turned out to be easier said than done, but finally they were able to manhandle the bike up the ramp and into the trailer. Because of the rear tire damage, they laid her on her side and strapped her down.

“Can you take a look at Rylie’s car to make sure it’s roadworthy, Dan?”

“Sure.” Todd nodded to Rylie. “Release the hood for me so I can check it out.”

It took only a few minutes for him to rule that the car could be driven, though, like Eric had said, she’d need some bodywork on the front end.

Dan left with a wave, and for a moment Eric remained silent. 

“I’ll need your contact information for my insurance,” Rylie said.

“Sure. Want me to put it on your cell, or use that pad?”

She took the pad back out of her tiny purse. He flipped it open and wrote his name, cell number, and his address.

“Can I see your purse?” he asked.

She stared at him for a moment, her expression wary, then finally handed it to him.

He opened it and looked inside.

“Why are you looking inside my purse?”

“It looks about the size of a postage stamp. For a few minutes there I thought it was one of those bottomless magician bags. You know, the kind where they just keep pulling shit out of it.”

Rylie laughed. She’d been pretty in a California-girl way before, but when she laughed she was beautiful.  And she had just enough of a rasp in her voice that it was sexy as hell.

He handed the purse back. “A bunch of us are sitting in the back eating wings and hanging out. Why don’t you join us? I’ll share my steak with you.”

I hope you loved the chapter. Thanks for reading.  

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Teresa Reasor