She tugged away. “Those are old.” He relinquished his hold and watched from the corner of his eye as she arranged the bangles to cover the evidence of somebody’s aggressive grip.
So much for confiding.
She circled back to his original accusation, which served as a pretty good indication of how much she didn’t want to discuss the bruises. “I don’t normally hitchhike. And I didn’t catch a ride from Millersville.” She raised the visor and turned to him. “I walked. I figured I could make the trip in a few hours.”
“Seven miles with a fifty-pound duffel, a guitar, and rainclouds overhead? That was Plan B?”
“I didn’t know it was seven miles, and I’ve never minded a little rain on a hot day.” Her back went up and her chin took on a defensive jut. “The old guy at the mini-market in Millersville called it a quick skip down the road.”
“Yeah, well, my guess is he hasn’t skipped it in a long time.” A look at the dashboard told him he had thirty minutes remaining on his shift. Questions filed though his mind like lineup suspects. What brought her to Bluelick? How long did she plan to stay? Most importantly, what could he do to hurry her along? Intriguing as Roxy might be, Bluelick needed an itinerate musician about as badly as it needed a panhandler in the town square—and he wasn’t sure they didn’t amount to the same thing. He wanted more information about her plans to determine if he had this particular bundle of trouble quantified and contained. She needed a decent meal. No reason he couldn’t manage both at once. He signaled and pulled into a curbside space in front of DeShay’s Diner.
His passenger sat straighter in her seat. “Where are you going?”
“I’m hungry. You’re hungry.” He put the car in park and turned off the engine. “We’re getting something to eat.”
“You know what? I’m full. The energy bar really hit the spot, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just take my possessions and be on my way.”
“An energy bar is no substitute for a decent meal, especially not when you’ve already passed out once from lack of sustenance.”
She shook her head. “From nerves. Cops make me nervous.”
“Hitchhikers make me nervous. Let’s calm our nerves over dinner. I’m buying.” He tossed this incentive over his shoulder as he got out of the car. She stayed in the passenger seat, examining her non-existent options until he came around and opened her door.
The prompt got her moving. She stepped out of the car, faced him, and crossed her arms, unwittingly—or maybe quite wittingly—plumping her breasts over the draping neckline of her shirt. “Can I at least get my things out of the trunk?”
“After.” As long as he had her gear, he had her.
Her exaggerated sigh told him what she thought of his tactics, as did the way she pivoted and walked toward the diner, flip-flops clicking off each impatient step. A couple strides from him easily closed the distance. He reached for the door and accidentally brushed her in the process. Nothing out of line, just the inside of his arm against the curve of her shoulder, but the innocent contact stopped them both in their tracks. She glanced up, and their gazes held for a moment—long enough for him to see a flare of something hot and combustible in her eyes before she looked away and murmured, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, knowing damn well she’d seen the same combustible heat burning in him. The kind fueled by way too much chemistry and perversely fanned by the knowledge acting on it would be bat-shitably certifiable.
Air thick with the scents of fried chicken and cornbread hit him an instant before Adelaide DeShay looked up from scribbling on a notepad at the hostess stand. She sent him a welcoming smile. “Hey, West. Want your usual to-go order?” Her attention shifted to Roxy, and she blinked. “Or can I show you to a table?”
This was what he liked about living in a small town. After traversing the globe in a mostly invisible capacity with the SEALs, and then serving as a cog in the big, often impersonal machine of the NYPD, he appreciated being greeted by name and having a “usual” order at the local diner. That sense of community connected him in a way he hadn’t fully realized he needed when he’d accepted the job in Bluelick.
“Table for two, Addy.”
“Sure thing.” She picked up menus and stepped out from behind the stand. “Follow me.”
Her smooth, ginger-honey hair brushed her shoulders as she led them past a few tables of early dinner customers. He nodded to old Mr. Cranston and downright ancient Ms. Van Hendler, who sat on the same side of a booth working their way through coffee and pie. Grady Landry from the credit union and Ed Pinkerton from the hardware store looked up as they passed. Everyone’s reactions matched, to a person. They smiled at him, and then those smiles gave way to unvarnished curiosity as Roxy stole their attention. Between the streaked hair, tattoos, and I’m-with-the-band ensemble, she collected more than one double take. This part of small-town living—the everybody-up-in-everybody’s-business part—he was still getting used to.
Addy stopped beside a window booth. “How’s this?”
“Works for me.” He gestured for Roxy to have a seat and then slid into the booth opposite her.
“I’ll bring a sweet tea for you, seeing as how you’re on duty.” Addy aimed her friendly smile at Roxy. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just water, thanks.”
“Bring her an OJ.”
Turquoise eyes narrowed on him. “I don’t like orange juice.”
“I don’t like you passing out.”
“I had the protein bar—”
“You know,” Addy interjected, “we’ve got a fresh batch of our world-famous lemonade. It’s my grandma DeShay’s secret recipe, and I can tell you there’s nothing like it on a hot summer evening.”