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I need to get back to work,” Patch said. He gave me a once-over that lingered a bit below the hips. “Killer skirt. Deadly legs.
Becca Fitzpatrick
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Becca Fitzpatrick
Age: 45
Born: 1979
Born: February 3
Author
Novelist
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Centerville
Utah
Back
Patches
Need
Killer
Needs
Deadly
Work
Killers
Hips
Lingered
Legs
Skirt
Gave
Patch
Bits
Skirts
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It was a smile that spelled trouble. With a promise.
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I took three steps back he nudged the door closed with his foot. “You like Mexican?” he asked. “I—” I’d like to know what you’re doing inside my house! “Tacos?” “Tacos?” I echoed. This seemed to amuse him. “Tomatoes, lettuce, cheese.” “I know what a taco is!
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You're crazy. You're impossible.' 'I'm crazy?' He tipped my chin up and planted a quick, rough kiss on my mouth. 'And I must be crazy for putting up with it.
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Patch stood over me, and a drop of rain slid from his hair, landing like ice on my collarbone. I felt it slide along my skin, disappearing beneath the neckline of my shirt. His eyes followed the raindrop, and I began to quiver on the inside.
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Did you hear something, Nora?” Vee asked. “I thought I heard something.” “You definitely heard something,” I agreed. “Could that be … a dog fart I heard?” Vee asked me.
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Nothing makes me happy quite like a boatload of freshly fried fast food, smothered in good old MSG.
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I know you followed me. Don't look so surprised. It's called a rearview mirror.
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Door’s locked,” he said. “And we have unfinished business.
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