120 Mph by Jevenna Willow Read Free Book Online

condemnation?”
    Her tone was tart, brittle, and so truly
unnecessary so damn early in the morning. Lack of sleep . . . and well, a whole
let else lacking fueled this fire.
    Christian’s brow furrowed. He didn’t say
anything right away. Perhaps the man was stewing on the information supplied
him. When he did answer it was not what Sara expected from a Reverend’s mouth.
    “I don’t know what I did to piss you
off, but Damnit, Sara! Really? You’re going to throw Godly condemnation into
the lot before nine a.m.?”
    A quick check to her initial reaction
and usual explosion of temper, Sara held her fury in as best she could. Her
lips, however, had a mind of their own and told the good Reverend exactly what
the brain wanted to say.
    “I would love to throw of whole lot else
at you, Reverend Mohr. . . but as you can see, I’m not in the mood.”
    “Well, neither am I in any mood to hear
it,” he rudely determined.
    Sara turned her head to escape such blatant
scrutiny. “I should just get you the bowl. I think that would be best.”
    “What I think,” he started, stopping
when he most likely thought better on what her response would be.
    “You think what?” she prodded, poking
the angry bear.
    That bear answered fast. “It really doesn’t
matter what I think.”
    “Oh! But I am quite certain that it
does,” she declared. A command for argument set in the tone of her voice.
    He looked her square in the eyes perhaps
to give her fair warning he was not a man who would back down.
    “Fine, you asked for it. Will you have
dinner with me, Ms. Ruby, and say yes before I come to my senses and change my
mind about you?”
    Apparently, not enough of a warning had
been made. Sara dropped her empty coffee cup. The ceramic shattered into a
million pieces onto her apartment floor.
    Without pause, Christian reached out his
hand, grabbed her upper arm, and pulled her body toward his. He’d meant only to
protect her bared feet from stepping on the sharp chips. Unfortunately, the gentlemanly
action caused Sara to fall into his embrace and her hands to land directly on
his shirtfront.
    With ragged breathing, and those indrawn
breaths of the most exquisite cologne a man could chose to wear, she whispered
out, “I . . . am . . . Oh, God!”
    She couldn’t finish the sentence as his
brows arched.
    She tried in vain to push away, but he
held firm his grasp on her upper arm until certain she was clear of the
dangerous pieces.
    “I am so sorry, Reverend,” she finally
found tongue for.
    Sara meant the impact of her hands to
his chest. She was not sorry, however, for her body’s response to that impact. And
he didn’t look as though he’d wanted it to happen, either.
    Regrettably, his next statement did not
ease her conscience any more than asking her to dinner had.  “If you won’t offer
me coffee, will you at least have dinner with me?” As added incentive to her
saying yes, he threw in the devilish charm of deep dimples as bait.
    How could any sane woman say ‘no’ to
deep dimples?
    Yet no one ever said Sara was sane.
    “Ah, no. I don’t feel having dinner with
you would be right for either of us.”
    “Why would having dinner with me not be
right?” he construed.
    Sara had to look away to gather her
thoughts. How could she put it delicately to this man? That he wouldn’t take
literally, or use against her in some way, as every man alive has over the
years.
    “God and I are a little mad at each
other right now, Reverend Mohr.” There. That should certainly do the trick to
get the Reverend to leave—with his bowl and his saintly security still intact.
    It didn’t work this way, however. In
fact, it backfired right in her face.
    “God is not asking you to dinner, Sara.
I am. Let Him find his own date.”
    “Um, yes, um . . . well . . .”
    Okay. Plan B was now called for, because
plan A certainly fell flat on its face. Unfortunately, Plan B drifted pitifully
to the wayside the moment Sara knew the good Reverend