Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) Read Free Page A

so your heart’s been broken. Whose hasn’t been?”
    “Has yours ?” His eyes soften. “I’m not sure, but something’s telling me that it has, or some kind of shit’s happened to you to stop you from ever opening up. It’s one or the other.”
    Who is this guy? A mind reader?
    The truth is my parents’ wicked excuse of a marriage left me chained, bound to the anger that’s blossomed over the years. Their union—or lack thereof—poisoned me, soiling my spirit. It made me a hater of love, never once allowing anyone to step into what’s left of my world.
    But that doesn’t mean my heart hasn’t been shattered. It’s been hacked to pieces in ways the average person can’t fathom. Trembling on a blood-soaked carpet, I cried more tears than most people purge over a lifetime.
    Still, I’m sure my past isn’t stamped across my forehead. I’ve hidden it well, masking it under a bravado most take years to master. Well, up until this point, I thought I did a good job of hiding it. “That question’s a no-go,” I say, firm on not letting him in on too much. “You can ask me anything else, but nothing that has to do with what my heart has or hasn’t been through.”
    “That’s cool for now.” Brock leans back, brushing a hand through his hair. “Can I get your favorite color, then?”
    Simple enough. “Green.”
    “Florida or Montana?” he continues.
    “I can’t stand the beach, and cowboys don’t do a thing for me, so neither.”
    “Well, young lady,” he says, deepening what I already consider a Southern drawl, “I don’t own a ranch, but I’d take a spicy little snow bunny over fake implants any day.”
    His response strikes me as odd, but I can’t help but laugh. He doesn’t fit the mold. I like it.
    “Flowers or chocolates?”
    “Are you aiming for clichéd?”
    “Mental note taken.” He nods, acting as if he’s writing this down. “Spiked heels or dirty sneakers?”
    I look down at my three-year-old, seen-better-days Chucks. “Uh,sneakers.” The answer should be obvious considering I’m also sporting Walmart-brand jeans and a faded vintage Nirvana T-shirt.
    Brock studies me a moment. “That’s the response I was hoping for. I dig different.”
    I feel red paint my cheeks in a flush as his gaze stays locked on mine.
    As if sensing my nervousness, he clears his throat. “First number that pops into your head?”
    “Sixteen.”
    “Beer or hard liquor?”
    I roll my eyes. “ Duh  . . . both.”
    He chuckles. “A Perfect Circle or Coldplay?”
    “Polar opposites. They’re both awesome bands. Plus, that’s like choosing your favorite book boyfriend. You can’t.”
    “Agreed, but I have no idea what a book boyfriend is. You’ve sparked my curiosity, though.”
    I smile, not even about to go into detail of their importance to the hordes of women who compare them to every male on earth. “We need a full day for that topic.”
    “Got ya.” He laughs, rubbing his hands together. “Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?”
    “All three combined into one magnificent flavor.”
    “A walk in the park or a day spent riding on the back of a motorcycle?”
    “Have you heard of Deuce West?”
    He gives me a confused look.
    I smile again. “Definitely a day spent on the back of a motorcycle.”
    “Very cool,” he replies. “Summer or winter?”
    “Winter. I hate the heat.”
    “Christmas or Thanksgiving?”
    “I’ll take a turkey over a fat man wearing red any day.” That garners me a smile.
    “Favorite sexual position?”
    Sneaky. I like. I almost spill that any position—in any public or private place—is just fine by me, but I stick to innocence and widen my eyes.
    “I figured I’d try,” he admits with a smirk. “Favorite food?”
    “Sushi.”
    He crinkles his nose.
    “For real?” I ask, rocked that any human in their right mind wouldn’t want to consume it every day. “You don’t like sushi?”
    “I only like certain . . . female things raw.” He