Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
When Maren Bernabe stops by the office to update some paperwork, she’s not looking for love. Then sparks fly during an awkward meet-cute with a stranger in the bathroom, and suddenly anything seems possible.
A seasoned air tanker pilot, Maren battles fires across the rugged Montana wilderness. With firefighters for roommates, she’s no stranger to tough guys—or tough situations. Ozzy Laster is the helpful stranger she meets, one of Cielo Aviation’s newest aircraft mechanics who’s faced his fair share of hardship too. Two years ago, his wife and father died in a car crash. Now Ozzy and daughter Lola shun cars in favor of bikes.
Maren and Ozzy fall hard, but guilt forces them to hide their relationship from Ozzy’s disapproving in-laws. And Lola. They all want to protect her from more heartbreak. But when tragedy strikes again, Lola’s reaction will surprise them all. And Ozzy could get a second chance at love after all
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Ozzy
“If you want to have sex again before you die, I’m okay with it.”
I nearly fall off my bike.
Lola is ten going on twenty. Sex shouldn’t be in my daughter’s vocabulary.
She stands so her skinny legs can pump the pedals to get in front of me, curly blond hair flowing in the breeze over her worn coral-and-blue Patagonia backpack. It belonged to her mom, just like everything else about our daughter. She’s Brynn’s mini-me: expressive blue eyes, ornery dimpled cheeks, beaming smile, and infectious laugh that I feel in my chest.
“What do you know about sex? Never mind. Let me rephrase that. What made you say that to me? Did Nana or Pa mention something?” I ride alongside her when the cracked sidewalk widens as we bike through an affluent neighborhood. We might hit record-high temperatures again today, with no breeze and a cloudless sky. Spring in Missoula feels like summer this year, and we need rain.
“Yum. Smell that?” Lola inhales. “Doughnuts. Can we stop?” She’s changing the subject, but I’m okay with not talking about my sex life.
“No. You had breakfast. You’ll be late to school, and I’ll be late to work.”
“I’ll eat it on the way.”
“You can’t eat while riding your bike.”
Lola stretches her arms out like an eagle, riding with no hands.
Show-off.
Then she takes a right into the parking lot as if it’s a foregone conclusion that I will say yes. Dang it! I smell it, too: sweet cinnamon-apple fritters. She’s right; we’re buying doughnuts.
“I’m getting glazed chocolate.” She hangs her neon-pink helmet from the handlebar and skips into the shop.
I’m in over my head with this girl. By the time I grumble my grievances over losing control of my child, she’s at the counter ordering for us.
The wiry-haired brunette shoots me a half grin while smacking her gum. “That’ll be seven dollars.”
I dig out my wallet and deposit a ten on the counter beside some crumbs.
“Are you married?” Lola asks the lady.
“No. Why?” She hands Lola the change, and my generous daughter stuffs all three bills into the tip jar.
“You should go on a date with my dad.”
This isn’t happening. Very few things embarrass me, but this sends flames to my cheeks.
“Sorry. My daughter hit her head yesterday.” I yank Lola by her backpack away from the counter while offering a stiff smile to the employee bagging our doughnuts. Given the permanent scars on Lola’s forehead and right cheek, I’m sure this lady doesn’t get my head-injury humor. Still, after a beat, she blushes as well.
Does Lola know this is the last time we will visit her favorite doughnut joint? Because it is.
Lola wriggles out of my hold and turns toward me with a crinkled nose, which makes the horizontal scar below her eye disappear. “I didn’t hit my head,” she says.
“Oh dear. You don’t even remember,” I say. “I think we’ll have to get it checked out. I hope your memory loss isn’t permanent.” I nab the white paper bag from the counter and give the much-younger woman a final glance.
She bites her lower lip and bats her creepy tarantula eyelashes. We are for sure never coming back here.
The second we step outside, I retrieve my apple fritter and shove part of it into my mouth, holding it with my teeth before tossing the bag into the garbage.
“Dad, my doughnut was in there!”
I fasten my helmet and take the fritter from my mouth. “This afternoon, when you get home from school, and I ask you what you learned today, I expect you to say: ‘If I embarrass my dad in public, I will not get a doughnut.’”
Her jaw drops. “You are the worst father in the world.”
“I love you too. Let’s get to school so you won’t be late and hankering for a doughnut.”
I inhale all but one bite of my fritter, and just as we begin to ride out of the parking lot, I offer her the last morsel.
She frowns despite steering her bike closer to take my peace offering.
“Lola, I don’t need your help finding a date.”
“Dakota said his sister said their mom said she’s surprised you haven’t started dating.”
When we stop at the light, holding our breaths from the bus exhaust, I replay her statement for comprehension—Dakota, his sister, and their mom.
Dakota’s mom is on her third husband. I can see why she’d be surprised.
It’s hard to date when I can’t drive a car. And it’s hard to explain this to Lola when Victoria, her therapist, said I should never say anything that might make my daughter feel bad about “the situation.”
“Have you discussed this with Victoria?” I ask. Thankfully, the bus turns right, and we can breathe again.
“No. Why?”
“I think you should,” I say, just as we pass the congested line of cars along the street in front of the school.