Hi, Everyone! I am so thrilled to bring you the first ever Extreme Wednesday. As some of you mayknow, I'm launching a New Adult snowboarder series on February 3rd-- the Extreme Risk series-- and I thought it would be fun to introduce you to Z and Ophelia today, the main characters from the first book, Shredded.
Blurb:
In this intense and exhilarating New Adult series debut, a hotshot snowboarder and a rebel with a cause try to let go of the past—and find a future with each other.
Twenty-one-year-old professional snowboarder Z Michaels is the bad boy of Park City, Utah. He’s always had his pick of any girl in town—and on the competition circuit. But underneath his cool exterior is a young man in turmoil, trying to take the edge off tragedy by overindulging in sex and shredding the slopes. In fact, Z’s rash behavior is a thinly veiled attempt to blunt his emotional suffering with physical pain.
Ophelia Richardson isn’t like any girl Z has ever met. Though she’s from New Orleans, she’s no Southern belle—and she’s not shy about being miserable in frozen, godforsaken Park City. But after nearly dying in the same drag-racing accident that killed her boyfriend, she needs a place to heal, both physically and emotionally. The last thing Ophelia wants right now is a boyfriend—especially one as rich and reckless as Z. But Ophelia soon discovers that he isn’t what he seems. If anything, Z may be even more damaged than she is.
Feeling alone in the world, Z and Ophelia find a connection unlike any they’ve ever known. But their tormented pasts pull them in every direction, forcing their relationship into a downhill slide before it even begins—unless they can find the strength in each other to trust, grow, and love again.
Excerpt:
By the time I
get to the counter, the tension inside me has reached critical mass. Part of me expects my skin to split open
under the pressure of it any second now.
Old guy has moved on, thank God, but
now there’s a small line of people between me and new girl. I focus on her to the exclusion of everything
else, take this shot at checking her over to block out the rest of my fucked up
life.
She looks good up close, and even
though she’s wearing jeans and a turtleneck, both items are tight enough that I
can see just how smoking hot her body really is. Too bad we live in the snow ‘cuz this girl
should never wear a coat.
I pass the time imagining what I’m
going to do to her when I get her alone.
Where I want to touch.
Which spots I want to kiss. To lick.
To bite.
With
her there are so many that I’m not sure where to start. At the nape of her neck, right below where
she’s bundled her hair into that messy bun?
At the birthmark right below her jaw on the right side of her neck? Or at the tiny little dimple that flashes in
her left cheek whenever she smiles at a customer?
Wherever I start I know exactly where
I want to end up. But now I’m just
torturing myself, and by the time I get to the counter, I’m grateful I’m still
in my thick snowboarding pants.
Otherwise, my interest would be obvious to everyone in the damn room.
“What can I get you?” she asks, her
fingers poised over the register. For
the first time I realize they’re painted a funky green that almost exactly
matches her eyes—not what I was expecting from her with all those tough girl
vibes she throws out. I like the color
though, almost as much as I like knowing there’s more to her than I
thought.
Not that it really matters, I remind
myself. I want to fuck her, not get to
know all her twists and turns.
“I don’t know.” I let my voice go a
little huskier than normal, give her the half-smile that usually gets me
whatever I want. “What’s good?”
“That depends on what you
like.” She mimics my tone exactly, but
when I search her face there’s nothing but polite professional interest
there. It’s my second clue that I might
be in for more than I bargained for here.
Interested despite my less than honorable
intentions, I lean against the counter and contemplate my choices. The answer I want to give her has nothing to
do with coffee and everything to do with what I’ve spent the last five minutes
fantasizing about. But something tells
me that kind of approach won’t work with her, not this girl with the
deliberately bland face, kick-ass voice and —I glance down at the hands she
still has poised over the register— trembling, green-tipped fingers.
I barely bite back a grin. Looks like I make her nervous, after all.
It’s the best news I’ve had all day. “I
like just about anything,” I finally tell her.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that about you,”
she answers dryly, sounding less than impressed.
“Oh, really? And what exactly have you heard—” I glance down at the black and
silver nametag pinned to her shirt—“Ophelia?”
She rolls her eyes. “I think you’ve got a pretty good idea what
people say about you, Z. Now are you going to stand there all night
batting your eyes at me or are you actually going to order something for your
harem?”
“My harem?”
She nods toward Lila and her
friends, and this time the look on her face lets me know just how unimpressed
she is. Damn. Looks like my reputation really has preceded
me. Or Lila’s has. She’s one of the winter regulars who have a
lot more money than sense. Somehow I
doubt she’s got the intelligence—or basic good manners—to be nice to the
barista. Which means I really might be
screwed here.
It matters more than it should. Normally I don’t give a shit what people say
about me—and they say a lot, especially since Luc, Ash and I turned pro—but
something about the way Ophelia’s looking at me is making my palms sweat. It’s a first for me, and one I’m not all that
happy about.
“I barely know those girls.”
“Like that’s supposed to impress me?”
“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all
day. “What would impress you?”
She eyes me disdainfully. “Way more than what you’ve got to offer.”
So much for honesty. That’s why I work so hard not to put myself
out there—it always bites you in the ass.
Determined to get control of the situation, I rest my hands on the
counter and lean into her. Then I turn
it on, the same look I gave those women earlier. The same look that’s gotten me every girl
I’ve tried for since I lost my virginity at the age of thirteen.
Ophelia’s eyes go wide and she
bobbles the cup she’d reached for seconds ago.
This time I don’t even try to hide my smile.
“Why don’t you give me something
sweet,” I suggest after she’s stared at me for a few long seconds.
“Something
… sweet?” Her voice sounds strangled.
“Yeah.” A few strands of hair have
escaped her bun, and I reach out to stroke an errant curl before winding it
around my finger. “And hot. It’s pretty cold outside.”
“You want—“ Her voice breaks. She’s breathless now and I know this is
it. I’ve got her. I feel a little twinge deep inside—one that I
might identify as disappointment if I ever let myself hope for anything-- but I
ignore it. This is exactly what I
wanted, after all. “You want something
sweet and hot?”
“That is how I like my coffee.” Among other things, my look tells her. Not that I’m cheesy enough to say shit like
that. But I can imply with the best of
them.
Ophelia’s eyes are a little hazy
now, a little unfocused, but she nods jerkily.
Then, before I can say anything else, she heads over to the espresso
machines and fumbles around for a minute or two. She doesn’t look towards me once, and when
she comes back, she’s carrying a large glass of iced coffee.
Confused, I look back and forth
between her and the drink. “That doesn’t
look very warm,” I finally tell her.
“Yeah, well, I made an executive
decision. It looked like you needed
something to cool yourself down with.” And then it’s her turn to lean over the
counter. I have a quick second to curse
the turtleneck-- I’d really like to see what this girls’ tits look like-- right
before she dumps the coffee all over the front of my pants.
###
He doesn’t react right away. And when he does, it’s not at all the way I
expect.
Maybe it’s the insulated
snowboarding pants or maybe it’s his too cool attitude, but Z doesn’t screech
or yell or even curse. He just looks at me, that
too-gorgeous-for-his-own-or-anyone-else’s-good face of his frozen in
surprise. Whether it’s because I dumped
the drink on him or because he’s finally figured out that I played him, I don’t
know and I don’t care. All that matters
is he gets the message and leaves me the hell alone.
Still, some instinct deep inside me
whispers that not much surprises him.
The fact that I did makes me happier than it should.
And then he smiles, and I know I’m
right. Because it isn’t that
come-sit-on-the-big-bad-wolf’s-lap-and-let-him-take-a-little-bite-out-of-you
smile that he leveled at me a few minutes ago, the one that weakened my knees
and nearly melted my brain cells along with those of every female in the
vicinity. No, this is a real smile. A genuine grin ripe with amusement and
speculation and something else I can’t even begin to identify.
But whatever that unknown thing is,
I’ve been around the block enough to know that I’m in trouble. That this meeting probably won’t end well
between us. At least not for me.
Still, what was I supposed to
do? Stand here with my heart pounding
and my knees knocking together like some kind of
ripe-for-the-picking-damsel-in-distress?
Throw myself at him like every other
girl in a hundred mile radius does?
Let him think I’m going to be just
another notch on his snowboard?
I don’t think so.
I did what had to be done, nipped
his totally impersonal pursuit in the bud before it got completely out of
hand. It’s not that I think I’m in any
danger of falling for him—rich, pretty boys like Z make me break out in hives—
especially when they’re adrenaline junkies.
But still, I’m not taking any chances.
Not
after what happened in New Orleans.
Just the thought of Louisiana, of
Remi, has my stomach churning and my chest aching. I’ve been doing so well, too.
Minding
my own business.
Getting
my life back in order.
Looking
into classes at the community college so I won’t be stuck in this dead end
job—this dead end life—forever.
At
least until Mr. my-balls-are-bigger-than-my-bank-account here comes along and
decides to mess with me just because he can.
Fury burns through my veins at the thought and I glare at Z. Suddenly I’m itching to dump another cup of
coffee on him. One that isn’t iced this
time. But I need this job and already
people are pointing and staring. If my
aunt or uncle pass by and see all the commotion, I’ll be out another job. And seeing as I’ve already gotten banished
from the gift shop and one of the
restaurants in the twelve days I’ve been here, I’m kind of running out of
options.
Annoyed but resigned to doing some
kind of damage control, I pull out a clean rag from under the counter and
thrust it toward him. “Here. You can use this to clean up.”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” His grin widens and it only ticks me off to
see that my ire amuses him. At least
until he reaches for the back neckline of his shirt and pulls it over his head
in one smooth movement. By the time he
starts dabbing at his black pants with it, my anger is a thing of the
past. And so are my brain cells.
I can’t help it. I try to stay pissed, but it’s hard to
actually formulate thoughts—any thoughts-- when I’m confronted with a
half-naked Z.
I mean, the guy’s an alien. He has to be, because human beings just don’t
look like this. At least not outside of
magazine shoots and Hollywood movies.
And maybe not even there.
Despite the winter weather, his skin
is a soft, golden bronze that’s a testament to just how much time he spends
outside with his shirt off—despite the snow.
His arms are big, his shoulders well-developed. And his abs.
Ohmigod, his abs are a work of art.
Forget six pack. This guy has an
eight-working-on ten pack and for a second—just a second—my eyes nearly cross
as I imagine what it would be like to lick a path straight from his collarbone
to his navel.
He shifts a little under my scrutiny
and for the first time I notice the scars he’s got—on his arm, his chest, over
his ribs, down the side of his abs. Way
too many scars for a normal guy to have.
But he isn’t a normal guy, I remind myself. He’s a snowboarder, one known for taking
crazy risks and doing really wild stunts.
Is it any wonder his body is so torn up?
Not
that the scars make him look bad. Just
the opposite. Somehow they only
reinforce the beauty of all that hard-packed muscle and golden skin. The same way his ink does. I try to look away, but I can’t. I’m fascinated by the tattoo that covers the
entire right half of his upper body.
It’s a wall of tribal looking flames in shades of black and gray that
start somewhere below his waist and lick all the way up to his shoulder, over
his pec and down his right arm. It’s
beautiful, really well-designed and sexy as hell. On his left side is another tattoo, this one
a bunch of words in a fancy black script that I’m too far away to read. But I want to. Suddenly I’m dying to know what words are so
important that a guy like Z would brand himself with them.
Something tickles the side of my
chin and I have an abrupt, mortifying fear that it’s my own saliva. That I am literally standing here drooling at
the work of art that is Z Michaels. I
dash my hand over my chin just in case.
Turns out I haven’t lost complete control of my salivary glands—it’s
just a lock of hair that escaped from my bun.
The realization snaps my brain back
into action. A few seconds too late, but
I’m a big believer in better late than never.
Or, at least I am now.
“You know, we have a rule here at
the Lost Canyon coffee bar,” I tell him with a little flick of my fingers. “No shirts, no shoes, no service. You should probably go take care of that
somewhere else.”
The dark eyes he turns on me are
filled with disbelief, and maybe, just maybe, a hint of respect. I’ve spent days watching how the female
population around here responds to this guy and I’m pretty sure that I’m the
first one to call him on his shit since he hit puberty. Maybe even before.
Just look at the girl he came in
with. He was all over her when they
first walked into the lodge, just like he’s been every time I’ve caught a
glimpse of him the last few days. Not
that I was looking for him, or anything.
But still. Then, within five minutes of being here, he’s hanging out
with another girl-- the trashy looking one who’d thrown herself in his path
like a kamikaze pilot on a hari kari mission.
Though, to be honest, it’s hard to
blame him for the second girl. Whoever
she was, the look she’d given him had told Z loud and clear that she didn’t
mind if he climbed on right there in the middle of the coffee bar. My only surprise was that he hadn’t taken
little-miss-can’t-open-my-legs-fast-enough up on the offer.
Not that it’s any of my business--
at least not until he came up to the counter and started in on me. I don’t care if every other girl in town is
okay with whatever tiny piece of Z she can sink her claws into. I don’t play that way, even if I am interested
in a guy. Which, in this case, I
definitely am not. After what happened
with Remi, there’s no way I’d touch this guy with a fifty foot pole.
“Wait a minute,” he asks when he
finally gets his slack jaw working again.
“You’re refusing to serve me, even though it’s completely your fault
that I’m shirtless?”
“First of all, I offered you a
towel. You’re the one who decided to
take your shirt off. Second, I’m being
generous and not charging you for the spilled drink. And third, I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.” Again, I flick my fingers at him like he’s a
particularly annoying gnat. “So move
along before someone from management sees you and has you removed from the
building.”
He snorts, like even the chance of
that is too far-fetched to contemplate.
Which it probably is. My aunt and
uncle love the fact that he comes here to practice with his friends. At dinner the other night they were talking
about how to convince him to sign on with them like his friends had. So far they’ve offered him everything but
ownership to the lodge and he’s turned it all down.
Must
be nice. To have so much money from
endorsements and sponsorships and family that you can just walk away from a
shitload of it for no reason at all.
“Management is going to remove me from the building?” he
asks incredulously. “You’re the one who
just dumped a drink down my pants.”
“On
your pants, not down them,” I feel the need to clarify.
“I didn’t realize there was that big
of a difference.”
“Yeah, I bet you tell that to all the
girls.”
Hope you enjoyed the first sneak peek at Shredded. Make sure to check back next week for another exclusive look! Have a great Wednesday :)
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