The bus engine roars toward us, and steam billows from my nostrils. “Get. Up. Sarah.” I pause, needing her to listen. “Please.”
She does not move.
My gaze tips up to the sky, seeking all composure and fortitude. When my eyes fall back to her, she’s watching me.
“You have a daughter, no? Would you want her to ride the bus where people are regularly being followed, held at knife-point, robbed, and who knows what else,orwould you rather she get in my truck where you know I would drop her off safely at work?” I grit out the last part as the bus’s brakes squeal.
Her eyelids droop, and I see I hit my mark.
She springs off the bench as the bus eases to a stop. “Great. I’ll probably lose my window seat away from the guy convinced he’s Blackbeard.” She stomps toward my truck, her backpack in her hand.
I shrug out of my coat and place it over her shoulders. “Where’s your coat? It’s freezing.”
Her steps falter, surprised by the weight of it. She glares at me, but shockingly, she accepts it.
I reach around her, opening the passenger door for fear that she’ll spin, run, and hop on the bus just to piss me off. Her eyes dart to me again out of the corner before she lifts her leg to climb in. Her narrow skirt constricts her movement, and she teeters, falling into me.
She braces her hand on the middle of my chest and stops, only for a second, eyeing the placement of her palm. Her gaze flicks to mine, and I offer my hand. A smile tugs at my lips at her unspoken need for help, but I keep that shit under wraps.
She lets out a little huff before placing her freezing hand in mine. I wrap my fingers around it, and the ice-cold contact creates a burning sensation that runs through me.
She uses it to boost herself into the seat, and I close the door.
I round the truck, shaking it off and shoring myself up for the next ten minutes.
I climb into the driver’s seat and am immediately assaulted by the scent of sunny days on the beach. It smells like her car. Knowing thatmakes me want to stick my head out the window and roll it up to cut off all circulation and air.
The last time I knew and cared what a woman smelled like taught me enough to avoid being susceptible to such characteristics ever again.
I reach for my seatbelt, and Sarah does the same, maneuvering the belt around my coat.
Great, my coat will probably smell like her. I’ll have to bleach it.
I put the truck in drive and pull away from the curb, completely ignoring Sarah’s stiff posture.
I clear my throat. “Why didn’t you get a rental?”
The woman is a lawyer and drives a BMW. The idea of her taking the bus is absurd.
Her upper body twists toward me. “Do you always address people with such a bossy tone?”
She answers a question with a question. Why am I not surprised?
I run a mechanic shop where the guys depend on a paycheck. I’ve taken care of Krissy since she was thirteen, which required a level of maturity and responsibility I was in no way ready for, but I did it.
Am I bossy? Maybe. Do I have to be? You bet your ass. It’s how I survived, and Krissy made it to womanhood.
“Most of the time.”
She stares at me as if she didn’t expect my honesty. “Why didn’t you say anything about living across the street?”
“You scare me.”
She laughs as if I’m joking, but it’s the truth. From the moment she set one heel in my garage, this woman has pushed buttons that have remained undetected for so long that they were corroded and impenetrable.
“Well, don’t worry. I don’t bite. . .often.” So she says, but I’m not inclined to believe her.
I stop at a red light and glance at her. Her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth to hide a smile, and I avert my gaze to the road.
