“Before that?”
“San Diego.”
“A Californian.” He said it like he was spitting out gristle.
Irritation percolated insider her. “I was only there long enough to get my Biology degree.”
He made a rolling motion with his hand. “And before that?”
“I grew up in Hawaii.”
“No kidding?Definitelynot from around here.” His voice had lost its sarcasm. “What were your parents doing there?”
Besides screwing up their lives and ours?“My dad was a professional surfer.”
“Wow. That’s not an answer you hear every day. Do you surf?”
“I surfed from the time I could walk,” she sighed. “I used to compete.”
“I take it you don’t anymore. Did you get hurt?”
“It’s a long story,” she deflected.
He cocked an eyebrow. “We’ve got nothing but time.”
“Let’s say I don’t know you well enough to go there.” Her answer came out terser than she’d meant, but he seemed wholly unfazed.
He gave a nod of understanding. “Fair enough, we won’t go there. What do you do in Montrose?”
She rubbed her neck, uncomfortable goingthereeither—especially after the Miners Tavern hostess’s comment about how the ownerhatedfood inspectors. Logic dictated this guy was in the same camp as the owner. Even at the best of times, the relationship between a restaurant worker and a food inspector was akin to that between a hockey enforcer and a ref. They had to tolerate someone looking over their shoulder, but they didn’t much like it—nor did they like the penalties that person might hand out. For trying to do her job, she’d been threatened and called every bad name imaginable, and she didn’t relish having to defend herself in her current trapped state.
Since her survival depended on this particular restaurant worker, she decided not to introduce a possible point of contention into the mix.
“I, uh, work for the county public health department. Hey, you know what? You were right. The ventsarewimpy back here.”
Noah tilted the rearview mirror down. “Rover’s resting peacefully. Why don’t you climb on up?” He held the front passenger seat down as she made the awkward clamber into place. Once she was settled, he tossed her a space blanket, which she gratefully spread over herself, trying not to ponder how long those vents would continue cranking heat.
“Hey,” he said softly, as if he’d read her thoughts. “We’ll get out of this. How about pulling up one of those pirate episodes on your phone?”
She merely nodded.
Clipped answers aside, Noah Hunnicutt was smooth at the reassurances—not in a Ted Bundy kind of way, though—and his honey-bourbon voice had a strange calming effect that allowed her tendons and ligaments to let go enough that she could slump back against the seat.
She scrolled through the episodes, settling on one, and handed him her device. Once they’d paired it with the sound system, he turned up the volume and leaned back.
“A-pirating we’re going, me matey. Yo ho.”
She had little chance to contemplate how surprisingly playfulthisstatement was before a different baritone timbre filled the truck cab with words of welcome to his podcast. Hailey closed her eyes.
She must have droppedoff because she roused with a jerk to a dim, cold cab. Unrelenting snow blanketed the world outside in suffocating white layers as daylight gave way to an ominous indigo twilight. A bright nylon kite tied to Noah’s antenna snapped with the driving wind.
She lurched forward. The small flame of a tea light flickered on the dashboard. Noah tilted his head, his glittery gaze fixed on her.
“I guess I dozed off,” she muttered, raking her fingers through her hair.
He nodded and handed her a water bottle. “Here. Have some before it freezes.” A cloud of steam billowed from his mouth.
Despite her gloves, Hailey’s digits were numb, and grasping the bottle proved difficult. She took a small sip and craned her head toward the backseat.
