Forever Found Book Tour & Giveaway

 

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Some days just sucked from the start and went downhill from there. Gabe Moretti knew this
was one of those days. Tapping his fingers on his steering wheel, he dug deep for the restraint not to
blare his horn at the old man at the pump in front of him. The Gas & Stuff had two islands with two
gas pumps on each one. Two of those pumps were blocked off by a tanker truck, refueling the
station’s supply. A dented Ford Fiesta sat at the front pump of the other island, filling up, and behind
that car was
the old man’s Oldsmobile.
The geezer had finished pumping gas a minute ago, but now was washing every window
with streak-free accuracy. The man tugged a handkerchief from his back pocket and lovingly buffed
the frame of the driver’s door.
Gabe dropped his head onto the car’s seatback. He had an eleven o’clock appointment with
a favorite patient of his and hated to make the girl wait. Most animals instinctively had a fear of
veterinarian offices, and Shelley, a sweet-tempered cocker spaniel, was no exception. The less time
she had to spend shivering in the waiting room, the better.
Snowflake had been another favorite. Gabe swallowed, the back of his throat thick. By now,
his body should have been picked up from the office by the crematory service. It had been
Snowflake’s time—Gabe knew it—but that never made putting a dog down any easier.
The pump hog bent over at the waist and unscrewed the cap from the valve stem of his front
tire. He pulled a small metal check valve from another pocket.
“Oh, come on.” Turning his ignition off, Gabe put a hand on his door, prepared to tell the man
to move his car to the side for all this bullshit. Gabe didn’t care how ancient he was. Rude was just
rude, and a person didn’t block a spot to check the air in his tires.
The owner of the Ford Fiesta replaced the nozzle and climbed behind the wheel of her car.
She pulled out, leaving the front pump empty.
Finally. Turning the ignition, Gabe put his Chevelle in reverse, backed up two feet, and
shifted into drive. He rolled an inch before slamming on his brakes, barely avoiding the Jaguar XK
convertible that flew past him and squealed into the empty spot.
His spot.
He turned his car back off, gritting his teeth, and threw his door open. He recognized that
car. More, he recognized the woman angling her body out of the convertible and strutting to the
pump.
His anger faltered for a moment when her long, bare legs came into view. Those legs were
the first thing he’d noticed about her when they’d met. She was a tall woman, and her toned and
tanned legs seemed to stretch forever. She was wearing some kind of straw-covered platform
sandals, adding another couple of inches to her already impressive height, and a pair of red shorts
that should have been illegal for the amount of skin they exposed.
Her sense of entitlement had been the second thing he’d noticed, and its appearance now
brought his anger flaring back to life. He strode toward her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?
There’s a line here.”
Marla Popov turned, nozzle in her hand and a surprised ‘O’ rounding her red lips. His
stomach tightened. Jesus, everything about her was cherry. Her shorts, her car, her lipstick. Even
her toenails were painted that deep, luscious red. The tempting splashes of color made him want to
lean in and take a bite. Physically, this woman did it for him. Her selfish attitude, however, was
another story. That spoiled his appetite right quick.
She tugged at the silk scarf that was knotted under her chin like she was Jackie O, and it
slipped off her head and landed on her shoulders. The golden highlights in her strawberry blond haircaught the morning sun. The strands shimmered from blond to apricot to peach, a silky sunrise. She
probably spent more money getting that color than most people did on food in a month.
Shooting him a bright smile, she stuck the gas nozzle into her Jag. “Hi, Gabe. I didn’t see
you there. I’ll be super quick.”
“You’ll be super gone.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “There was a line. That is my
spot. Move.”
She shook her head, as if he’d said something cute, and a hole burned into his gut. Her
black standard poodle, who sat in the passenger seat wearing a matching and equally ridiculous
scarf on its head, apparently didn’t find Gabe as amusing. She growled and stuck one paw on the
creamy leather armrest between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, looking ready to launch herself
at Gabe. For once, the feeling was mutual. There weren’t many animals Gabe didn’t like, but Marla
Popov’s sissied-up poodle was one of them. The fur on her body was shaved close, except for little
poofs that covered her lower legs, like fluffy leg warmers. A bubble of dark fur peeked out
underneath the scarf. The red leather collar she wore dripped with crystal.
It wasn’t the dog’s fault. She was Marla’s, and dogs frequently took on the traits of their
owners. As Marla was an annoying prima donna, it was only to be expected that the animal would
have personality issues, too.
Gabe still didn’t like the poodle.

 

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