The Viper by Amanda McKinney

Author:Amanda McKinney [McKinney, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781735868158
Publisher: HH Tisevich
Published: 2021-11-04T04:00:00+00:00

20

Colette

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I stormed across the street, ignoring the honk of a trailer-towing dually that narrowly missed the heel of my Birkenstocks. Too bad.

James Black rolled an obnoxiously large sucker from one cheek to the other, a grin spreading across those full, succulent lips.

I hated everything about him at that moment. The way he casually leaned against the tailgate, one foot resting on the hitch as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The way he’d replaced the ill-fitting suit he’d worn to my office with a thin gray T-shirt that stretched across a massive chest that should have an S painted in the middle.

I hated the way his khaki tactical pants hugged a pair of thighs as thick as tree trunks, and the way his scuffed combat boots made me envision him tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me to safety from the barrage of bullets behind us.

Most of all, I hated the tickle of butterflies that erupted in my stomach and danced when our eyes met.

I mentally kicked myself for not considering the possibility that the man in the mystery truck could be him. Of course it was the stubborn, brash DEA agent who wanted something from me.

James Black, the contingency I hadn’t planned for.

A breeze blew past us, ruffling his mussed hair and rippling the thin cotton across his body, showcasing—what else—that perfect V of a waist. Everything about James was different from the man I’d met in my office.

What was once a short-tempered, combative white-collar asshole was now a rugged mountain man of sorts with a lethally confident disposition and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. The man was one with the jacked-up truck behind him and the bevy of colorful leaves that slowly fluttered past him.

Unlike me, James Black fit like a glove in this small country town. We were polar opposites.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” he said in an obnoxious Southern accent.

“This isn’t the South, and you must mean fancy seeing me through the window all damn day.”

James pulled the sucker from his lips with a loud pop and grinned.

I scowled at the spit-covered ball of sugar. “What is that?”

“A sucker.”

“I know that. Why is it brown?”

“Root beer.”

I jerked my chin back in disgust. “Who the hell buys a root-beer lollipop?”

“Someone who likes beer. And I’m pretty sure only schoolgirls with ringlets call them lollipops.” He tugged another from his back pocket and thrust it at me.

I snorted.

“I really debated it,” he said, ignoring my disdainful expression as I stared at the candy as one might a can of sardines. “At first, I was going to go with strawberry, but then I thought, nope, too plain for someone like Colette Archer. Then I picked up the apple, and decided that was too simple for a woman who color-coordinates her earrings with her shoes. So I went with cherry-limeade—simple, sweet, but with a tartness sour enough to melt rocks.”

I plucked the sucker from his hand and slammed it to the asphalt, where it shattered.

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