Thirteen (Love by Numbers Book 4) by E.S. Carter Page A

I’m not worried anymore. Bright yellow granny cars are not typically a serial killer’s first choice of transport. You should be safe.”
    With her seal of approval, she kisses Lilah on the cheek and walks back inside the building.
    I shake my head at her retreating form. “So she has the cheek to check out if I’m a serial killer, yet she stands there, in gore splattered clothes? What is she? An abattoir worker?”
    I turn my focus back to Lilah, who still has that devilish smile on her face.
    “She’s a doctor, actually. Don’t let that fool you, though. She knows exactly how to extract your organs and how much she could get for them on the black market.”
    Why doesn’t that surprise me.
    These girls are even crazier than I am, and that’s saying something.
    “So, are you ready for our payback date?” I smirk, looking forward to her jaw dropping on the floor when she sees Jake.
    She tilts her head slightly, and her eyes squint at the corners.
    “Depends. Am I going to survive it?”
    I shake my head and open the passenger door for her to get in. “Now, where would the fun be in telling you? I didn’t get any warning about the Village People fugitives so turnabout is fair play.”
    She laughs lightly as she awkwardly climbs into her seat then looks straight into my eyes and says “I bet it’s the tantric sex class, isn’t it?”
    I blink rapidly, relieved I didn’t choose that option. “I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”
    “Or the strip joint on the high street?”
    I shake my head quickly, “No, I’ve never been there before. I didn’t even know there is a strip joint in town.” I lie unconvincingly.
    “Naked massage?”
    Who the fuck is this girl and how is she in my brain?
    “Now, you’re clutching at straws. Just buckle up and get ready for a wild ride.”
    I slam her door and walk around to the driver’s side. Before I’ve even grabbed my seatbelt, I can hear her murmur, “I’d have a wilder ride on a Shetland Pony than I would in this little go-kart.”
    So I mumble back, loud enough for her to hear, “Don’t fucking bet on it, Bunny Girl.”
    Then I rev the fuck out of the three-cylinder engine, causing the car to whirr like a battery powered whisk and I pull off with a squealing wheel spin into the light traffic. I sound like a boy racer on helium but the action makes her laugh, and I don’t care if it’s at me, because I can’t help but laugh too.
    “It’s almost as meaty as my Clarabelle.” She chuckles, depositing her large, brightly coloured handbag into the back seat of the car.
    “Clarabelle?”
    “My baby.”
    “You have a baby?”
    She giggles loudly, “Yes, you’ve already met her. She was dressed head to toe in red and almost made you pee your pants.”
    Clarity registers and I look over at her dumbfounded.
    “You call a beast like that, Clarabelle?”
    “She’s not a beast; she’s an independent, feisty, woman with curves that make grown men drool, including you.”
    “Still, Clarabelle? Couldn’t you call her something sinful like Jezebel? Clarabelle sounds like a cow.”
    “That’s a bit sexist of you. Clarabelle was my Grandmother’s name.”
    Foot in mouth. In fact, I’ve wedged my foot so far into my mouth that my toes are tickling my intestines.
    “S-sorry. That was rude…”
    She breaks into peals of laughter, the words, “Oh, God. You’re so easy to wind up. My Granny is called Rachel,” come out in between each chuckle.
    Relief floods me, but I cover it with the expected huff of annoyance, “You’re insufferable.”
    She smiles broadly, making deep dimples pop out on her cheeks.
    How can dimples be so sexy? Because, on her, they are. So fucking sexy .
    I clear my voice, attempting not to show how heated my blood feels. “So, are you ready to meet a superstar?”
    Her grin deepens, and she tucks a few strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you taking me to see a championship racehorse?”
    “Nope. Although, he thinks