Finding London (Flawed Heart #1) (2 page)

I scream like I always do.

“So, I quickly grab a sheet from the closet, and I open it up. Very slowly, I walk over to the bat until he is within reach. Then, using the sheet as a barrier, I wrap my hands around him. As swiftly as I can, I toss him out the open window, and I watch as he flies away.”

I shudder from thinking about it. “I still can’t believe you held a bat, Daddy.”

He laughs. “Honestly, Loïc, it was only for a matter of seconds, and I didn’t touch him because I had the sheet.”

I shake my head. “I would never be able to do that. I’m not as brave as you.”

He shakes his head and smiles. “But you are, son. You’re braver than I could ever be.”

“No way, Daddy.”

“Why did Mommy and Daddy choose your name?”

“You named me Loïc because it means warrior, and warriors are strong,” I repeat what they’ve told me many times.

“Not only are they strong, but they’re also very brave, the bravest. No matter what happens in your life, Loïc, you’ll be strong enough and brave enough to conquer it all. You were already more courageous than Daddy when you were one day old. Strength isn’t measured by how many muscles you have or what you are or are not afraid of. Strength comes from within. It comes from your heart. It will give you courage to face things, even when you’re afraid.”

Sometimes, Mommy and Daddy tell me the story about how the mommy who carried me in her tummy couldn’t keep me. Doctors said I survived on my own for two days after I was born, and then someone took me to the firefighters to find me a family. I was even in the newspaper. Mommy and Daddy said they cried so much when they got to take me home because I was the answer to their prayers.

Daddy leans down and gives me a kiss. “You, my little warrior, have the biggest heart I know, and that makes you the bravest.”

London

“I already feel like a tramp with my girls on display like this.”

—London Wright

“Ah!” I scream as the cool spray of water from the hose hits the small of my back, sending an unpleasant shiver up my spine.

My best friend’s laughter saturates the hot, sticky air surrounding me. I rub my hands up and down my arms, the movement so out of place on this record-setting muggy spring day.

“You’re such a bitch.” With mock disgust, I turn to glare toward Paige’s smiling face.

“Sorry. I couldn’t help it. You were just standing there, and I have this and all.” She nods toward the green garden hose in her grasp.

“Yeah. Maybe you missed the part about washing cars, not each other.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs, her auburn locks cascading over her shoulders.

“Just for that, you get the first car.”

“No way. All is fair in love and war,” she protests.

“Not really sure that quote applies here, babe.” I huff out a chuckle. I grab the hair tie from my wrist. Raising my arms, I pull my now partially wet hair into a ponytail. “Can you believe this is our last philanthropic duty, like, ever?” I face Paige again.

We graduated from the University of Michigan three weeks ago, but months ago, we had signed up for this car wash as one of our required charity events with the sorority.

“No, it’s so crazy. No more washing cars, raking yards, collecting disgusting cans of peas and soup, or selling raffle tickets to win lame-ass gift baskets. It’s hard to imagine.” She rolls her eyes. “And I can hardly wait.” Her pouted lips turn up into a quirky smile.

I met Paige the first day I stepped foot on campus my freshman year. I remember walking into my dorm room to find a thin little thing with long dark hair, wearing gym shorts that barely covered her ass cheeks. She was fastening a bright pink boa to the shelf above her bed and turned toward the door when I walked in.

Her wide smile greeted me before she said, “Hey! You must be my new roomie. I hope you don’t mind pink!”

I took a quick look around to find her half of the dorm room practically shining with a rose-hued glow. Everything from her bed to her desk was decked out with twenty shades of pink accessories.

I simply replied, “Not if you don’t mind green.”

It was the first color to come to mind that might clash with pink. In truth, I liked the color green even if I didn’t actually own anything bearing its shade, and pink was my favorite color as well. So, I could tell immediately that this girl and I were going to get along just fine.

She simply replied, “Hey, whatever floats your boat.”

I would come to see that Paige was full of one-liners, and she’d sometimes use popular sayings that didn’t actually fit the scenario.

From that first meeting in the dorm room to now, Paige McAllister and I have been best friends. We were roommates all four years. We saw each other through wardrobe malfunctions, bad boyfriends, worse breakups, drunken nights, horrible hangovers, useless classes, and tedious tests. She majored in marketing, and I majored in journalism. The two degrees had a lot of the same coursework, so we took as many classes as we could together.

We rushed the Delta Delta Delta sorority together as well, which leads us to our current predicament. The Tri Deltas love to donate to various charities. This week, we are raising money for the local no-kill animal shelter, which is a great cause. Of course, I have nothing against giving money to those in need—especially puppies—but seriously, it’s such a waste of time. If every girl in our chapter donated twenty bucks—basically pocket change—to our cause of the week, then we would have more money to give to each charity than we could make on any car wash.

Then again, as I look at Paige in her string bikini, this event might actually raise money.

“You look hot, BTW,” I say to her.

Her lips press into a satisfied smile. “Thanks.”

“I mean, you do look slightly like a hooker but hot nonetheless.”

She laughs. “I’ll take it. And as they say,
When in Rome
. You could join my hooker status if you would take off your shorts, you know.”

“I think I’ll keep them on, thank you very much,” I say matter-of-factly. “I mean, I already feel like a tramp with my girls on display like this.” I look down to my cleavage popping out from the top of my bikini.

“Your boobs are hot. With them, we’ll for sure make some money for our furry friends. We should have made a sign with our slogan!” she says excitedly.

“What slogan is that?”

She puts her hand out in front of her. “Boobs for a cause. Raising money for puppy paws.” She bounces her hand in the air after each word, as if she can see the slogan in lights.

“That’s not bad,” I respond with a chuckle.

“So, I’m doing the first car, right?”

“Um, yeah. You haven’t forgotten your little stunt from a minute ago, have you?”

“No, that’s fine. I was just checking. So, that means, you are doing the second one?”

“Um, yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” She shrugs with obvious mirth in her voice.

Makeshift rows have been set up in a large parking lot behind a local bank. Some of our sorority sisters have already started their washing duties, but we lucked out and got the farthest row out. The persistent low grumble of a large engine alerts me to the fact that my time chitchatting with Paige is over. I turn to face the two vehicles in our line, and I immediately understand Paige’s jovial mood.

“No way,” I protest.

“Yes way.” She giggles.

It isn’t the shiny little Toyota that catches my attention but the monstrosity of a dirty truck that is lined up behind it.

I stare, my mouth agape, at the mud-caked Ram Truck. The truck’s size itself is overwhelming. I’m going to need a ladder to reach the hood. But the dirt…
seriously?

“Oh, charity,” Paige sighs, her voice rising an octave. “It just makes you feel so good inside, doesn’t it?” She skips toward the first car and waves. “Have fun,” she calls back toward me.

I close the distance between myself and the truck, internally preparing myself to greet the asshole who is sure to be inside it with a smile because I am a Tri Delt, after all.

The truck idles before me. My eyes scan from the wheels to the doors. Every inch is simply covered in a hard filth that appears to have taken up permanent residence on this truck. If the truck were taken care of, it would probably be quite an expensive vehicle.

My gaze continues upward, but I can’t force my smile to come. Chalk it up to the fact that this is my last event with the sorority or maybe that it is eighty-seven humid degrees out or that the world’s largest dick just pulled up, but I can’t seem to force my Tri Delta classiness and jovial smile. So, instead, when my eyes finish traveling up the door to the window, I am wearing a verified pissed off scowl.

That is, until I see him.

His window is rolled down, and his arm is resting against it. He’s wearing some type of military camouflage uniform—Army, I think—along with a hat of the same material, but it isn’t the commanding presence of the uniform that has me speechless.

It’s the face beneath the brown-and-tan camouflage cap.

Damn.

I don’t find myself in this predicament often. Not much can rattle me to my core, but this Adonis before me has managed to steal every coherent thought I had.

The smirk across his face should anger me—normally, it would—yet I can’t allow myself to feel annoyed when I find myself in the presence of his rugged face with those lips and deep blue eyes that seem to glimmer next to his sun-kissed skin. His sandy-blond hair is short and barely visible beneath the cap, but an image of my hand running through the hair at the nape of his neck flickers in my mind before I can stop it. He is manly perfection, plain and simple.

I’m lost in visions of hot, sweaty sex, a beautiful wedding, and making babies. Yes, loads of babies. It’s official. I’m going to marry this man.

Movement before me pulls me out of the dream playing in my head, and I see Hottie’s smirk has grown in width.

“Um…what?” I stutter ever so non-gracefully.

“I said, you should close your mouth before you swallow a bug. It’s just mud. It will come off with a little elbow grease. You’re not afraid to get a little dirty, are ya?” His deep voice sends a torrent of chills across my skin.

It takes a split second for me to realize what he’s talking about.
That’s right…car wash. Got it.
“Oh, I love getting dirty.” I beam before internally cringing. A huge desire to kick my own ass rushes over me.

Enough of this middle-school-starry-eyed-girl syndrome. I’m a smart, attractive twenty-two-year-old college graduate. If I’ve learned anything in the past four years, it is how to get a guy to do what I want. And, right now, I can think of a lot of things I want this particular specimen to do.

I put on my sexy smile. “Hi, I’m London. London Wright. Sorry, momentary brain lapse there. Must be the heat.” I shrug.
Why did I give the car wash guy my last name?

“Yeah. It’s hot as a bitch.”

“Perfect day to make some poor college girl clean your filthy truck, huh?” I provide a smirk of my own.

“Exactly my thoughts. Although you’re anything but poor,
London Wright
.”

I love the way my name rolls off his tongue.

“Maybe not. But it’s not very nice of you.”

His body is turned toward the window, and I catch his name patch on the right side of his chest on his uniform.

“Berkeley,” I address him.

“It’s Loïc. If you didn’t want to wash cars, maybe you shouldn’t have put up the sign. I’m just trying to do my part for the”—he pauses momentarily as he looks back at one of the posters—“puppies.”

“Yeah, well,” I say in my favorite flirty voice, “if you really wanted to help the puppies and me, you could just donate some money and drive through an actual car wash before picking me up for a date later.”

His laughter booms through the truck cab as his head falls to the headrest behind him. “You’re something else, London. Does that sort of line work for you often?”

“Well, to be honest, I usually don’t have to work too hard. But I’ve found, when I see something I want, the best approach is a straightforward one.” I pause. “And to answer your question, yes, my lines always work for me.”

He takes me in, his beautiful blues squinting slightly.

I can’t make out his thoughts, but the silence is uncomfortable, so I continue, “So, I hear a slight accent in your voice. Where are you from?”

“A little bit of everywhere, I guess.”

“From the South?” I question.

“Partly.”

“You’re not giving much away, are ya?”

“Nope,” he answers.

My eyes are drawn to his lips and the way they form a perfect pout after he finishes that word.

“Loïc…that’s a different name. Is there a story behind it?”

“Maybe. Is there a story behind yours?”

“Yes, there is. Would you like to go out later, and I can tell you all about it?” I’m starting to get irritated with his evasiveness.

“Nope,” he says again, putting emphasis on the P sound.

Oh, crap. He must be married.

My eyes dart to his left hand that falls from the open window.

A rumbly chuckle vibrates through his chest as he assesses me while I squint toward his ring finger. “I’m not married, London, and I’m not in a relationship.”