“Josie,” he says with a sigh, “it’s not—”
“Oh, but it is.” I can’t stop. I won’t stop. “You think you know me oh-so-well because I wear expensive shoes?” I pointedly lift my knee up and look at my bare, dirty feet. “Oh, wait. I’ve got no shoes! Or is it my ruined pedicure? You expect me to cry over it, right? Look at my chipped nail polish. What will I do now? Oh, goodie!” I fan my face with my hand, slightly changing into a New York accent I worked hard to pick up in order to fit in. “And guess what? You’re right. I love my expensive shoes, and I love my pedicure. And I want to cry over losing my shoes because they were the last ones I can afford since I no longer have a stable job. And I miss my fancy apartment because now I don’t even have a bed to sleep in. So, dance your little victory dance, Sheriff, because you were right—I’m as shallow as you suspected.”
My chest rises with every deep breath. My heart is racing. My eyes swell with unshed tears for all the things that went wrong in my life.
“Josie,” he starts after a loud swallow.
“Save it,” I interrupt him by raising my hand in the air. “Can you please drive me to the Ghost House?”
“I can’t.”
I squeeze my fists on my knees harder. “Then stop the damn car, and I’ll walk there.”
“No, Josie,” he reprimands, which totally doesn’t help the situation. “Stop the hysterics.”
I feel my nostrils flare. “Stop the car.”
When he doesn’t stop or make any indication that he means to slow down, I start pulling on the handle.
“Josie, for fuck’s sake.” He reaches over me with one arm, spreading his open palm over my chest to keep the belt where it belongs.
Over my boobs. His hand is so huge that it covers most of my chest, his pinky resting on my right nipple.
We both freeze, and he pulls his arm back as if it was burned.
“Sorry,” he starts mumbling, his voice is a bit higher than before. Sucks because aroused men don’t talk falsetto, and one would think that touching someone’s boobs would make them hot and bothered. But not Sheriff Benson, no. He’s a different breed. Now even my boobs have lost their appeal. My life is going down the drain.
“I didn’t mean to touch your, you know, your,” he points at my chest, “this.”
Coming down from the anger high, I feel my cheeks pinkening at my outburst and afterthoughts. He didn’t deserve it. Well, maybe a bit, but to be honest, I don’t know for certain what he wanted to say. Really. I just chose to put words into his mouth. I was the one scraping up old wounds. So, I take a deep breath, hoping it will dampen my flaming cheeks.
“I know, don’t worry.”
He pulls to the side of the road. When the car is parked, he places both his hands on the wheel, and I feel his intense stare on the back of my head as I look out the passenger-side window.
“Josie,” he calls out, but I ignore him, so he adds gentler, “Josie, look at me please.”
I slowly turn to him, rolling my lips and feeling utterly embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I had a very long day and have taken my irritation out on you. It was wrong of me. I’m sorry.” His voice is firm and steady. He’s totally owning his shit.
“It’s not your fault.” I sniffle and start muttering, “I just behaved kind of weird. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.” My chuckle is full of embarrassment, but it lightens the mood. “Sorry about that.”
His low laugh is quiet and tired. Very, very tired, and I glance at him from a different angle and find something I haven’t seen before. Sunken eyes, deep tension lines around his mouth, his lips pointing downward. The man is exhausted.
“I was still out of line,” Kenneth continues, and I want to interrupt him again, but he stops me with a quick shake of his head. “Let me finish, please. It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but I sure hope you’ll accept my invitation and stay at my place for the night. I’m very tired,” he winces, saying it, “and I prefer not to drive through the whole town and then some more just to get stuck somewhere in the woods in the mud in the middle of the night.”
Suddenly, I feel guilty. I bet it wasn’t easy for him to admit to being tired, and here I am, demanding he drive me back to who knows where.
“Okay,” I agree softly. “I’ll gladly accept your invitation.”
“Cool.” He nods and shifts into gear.
A few minutes later, we arrive at the dead-end street that looks like a little, cute neighborhood. Every house has a manicured yard with tiny gnomes and pots with plants. I’m not sure it’s a good time to put those out since it’s pretty freaking cold at night, but I’m sure locals know their plants better.
We pull into a newly paved driveway in a two-story, single-family house. Made of red brick, it has a white door and matching windows. Very simple and very clean. Looks like it’s been power-washed because even in the dark, the building looks shiny.
The yard is flawless, but it doesn’t have a single speck of hominess the other neighbors have, yet it’s nice and organized. Too organized. Just like the man himself.
