Stolen Course (Wrecked and Ruined #2)

Great, now she’s texting. This woman is obviously not used to men ignoring her. I can definitely see why. She’s beautiful and I’m treating her like shit for no reason other than self-preservation. Why the hell do I feel guilty now? I let out a loud sigh before picking up my phone to text her back. I type out about twenty different replies but delete them all without sending.

What exactly do you say to a woman after you blow up and tell her you want to fuck her in the ass? I’m pretty sure that is the moment you just cut your losses and move on. But this isn’t just any woman. This is Emma, the person I promised to keep updated about Sarah until she can finally move up to Chicago. Before I have another chance to reply, my phone chirps again.



FYI: Now, would be a good time for you to apologize. If you don’t respond, I will just have to assume your silence is the Jones version of a profuse apology. :) -Em



As frustrated as I may feel, I can’t help but burst out laughing. It is almost one in the morning, but I’m off tomorrow, so I head to the fridge and crack open a beer. I toss the phone around in my hands for a few minutes, debating how to respond. But I knew what I was going to do as soon as I read her last text. I shake my head at myself and dial Emma’s number.

“Jesus, Caleb, do you always call people so late?” she says sarcastically when she answers.

“Not all people. Just the lucky ones.”

“Well I’ll consider myself very lucky tonight then.”

“Yeah, it sounds like you were really lucky tonight. Two guys, huh?” I try to lighten things a bit. I know she was just fucking with me, and I played right into her hand with my reaction.

“You know I didn’t really have a threesome tonight.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

“I know you didn’t.” I let out a guilty sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you always act like a kindergartener when you like a girl?”

“Who said I like you?” I mock surprise.

Yeah, I gave myself away. She knows that I think she’s hot, but wanting to have sex with someone is very different than actually liking them. At least it is in my world. I’ve had sex with numerous women since Manda. Never once have I even thought twice about them though. That is until Emma ran into my life.

“You called back, didn’t you?”

Damn it, busted again! She’s right. I like her even though I know absolutely nothing about her. I need to remedy this without acting like a broody, sullen teenager. Who knows. Maybe I will be able to shake her once I get to know her a little better.

“What’s your favorite color, Emma Jane Erickson?”

“What is this, the get-to-know-each-other portion of the night? I never thought you would be so cliché, Detective Jones.” She laughs for a second before answering, “Orange.”

“Oh, come on. No one likes orange.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Why not? It’s different and bold. It stands out amongst a blank world of black, white, and gray. Orange is the early morning sun stretching across the sky and the color of a burning ember standing tall in the middle of a beach bonfire. It’s leaves in the fall, carrots in Nana’s vegetable soup on a cold winter day, tulips in the spring, and the ladybugs in the middle of the grassy park on a hot summer afternoon. Orange is life. It’s unexpected but beautiful.” She stops talking, and her depth silences me too.

I consider myself a very artistic person. I draw, paint, and build. Creation is my escape. And to listen to this woman wax poetic about a single simple color steals my breath. It embeds itself somewhere deep inside. A place where no woman, especially an Erickson, has any business being.

“Oh, and it’s my favorite flavor of candy too.”

And with those simple words, I know I’m in trouble. So fucking much trouble. I begin to laugh, and I mean really laugh. The kind that sticks with you even after the joke is long since forgotten, and I do it for the first time in almost five years. Fuck.

“What about you, Caleb? What’s your favorite color?” The curious tone in her voice piques my interest. Is she as attracted to me as I am to her? If she feels anywhere close to what I feel, that could be seriously dangerous.

“Brown,” I answer simply.

“You gave me shit about orange when your favorite color is brown?” she yells, making me laugh harder.

God, I miss this. For the last few years, I’ve met nothing but she-bots. You know the kind—robots who always say what they think you want to hear. They say all the right things, are always aware of their surroundings, and read the people they interact with but never show you their true colors. I fucking loathe she-bots.

“What did you do tonight?” I ask when my curiosity gets the best of me. I may know she wasn’t having a threesome, but that doesn’t mean I’m not dying to know what she was doing.

“We went dancing at the gay club. It was so much fun. Hunter and Alex had this ridiculous bet going.”

“Shit. Your roommates are gay, aren’t they?” I ask, and she starts laughing so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

“Oh my God, no, they aren’t. But I can’t wait to tell them you assumed that. It was actually ladies’ night at the gay club.”