Chapter Seventeen
Heather jumped when he rested his hand on her shoulder. She unballed her hand from her hip clenching a purple pen. Forced a smile. Forced? Naw, her smiles came easily, made him want to caress those porcelain cheeks with his roughened thumbs. A forced smile didn’t bode well.
“What was I supposed to do?” Her smile fell and her eyes bounced away as she replied to Chet. “Just lose all of my gear and specimens in the process waiting a day for your adjuster to take photos? I had to salvage it…” She whirled away, her chest heaving up and down, her next words clipped. “I don’t know, you try crawling on your hands and knees into an upside-down truck filled with broken glass and tell me how safe you’d feel.” Tyler’d had enough. Her voice was taking on a snarky edge he’d never heard before. “We had to flip it—”
He plucked the phone from her and brought it to his ear as Chet’s voice droned, as Heather gaped at him for his audacity and furrowed her brow. Whatever. He could handle this swiftly.
“…but without original photos, Miss Carvalho, my hands are tied—”
“This is Tyler J. Dixon. Remember me? What’s the problem?” he bit out. Heather’s eyes widened. Despite her irritation, she smiled, though it seemed more of a perplexed look.
“Really angling for that impartiality,” she muttered.
He grinned.
Chet went silent, then spoke. “I’m not at liberty to talk to you, sir, without the claimant’s permission—”
“You give me permission to talk to them, Heather?” Tyler said.
*
Heart’s eyes widenedfurther.
“Tyler, OMG,” she shook her head, whispering. “Don’t go all alpha on me again.”
He quirked his brow at her. Alpha? he mouthed, grimacing.
“Like with the guy from the dealership?” Did she give him permission? Here he was, swooping into the rescue again, ready to be the fixer and protector. He covered the receiver.
“They rejecting your claim?” he asked, undeterred.
She nodded.
“She says yes, I’m her attorney,” Tyler replied.
She smacked his arm. “That’s not what I was nodding about—”
He laid his finger across her lips, his mouth quirking, wanting to smile, but he wasn’t letting it this time.
Chet said something, sounding like, “…need to get her verbal consent…”
Tyler held the phone out to her like it was a microphone and he a reporter. “Tell ’im you consent.”
She swallowed at the intensity on Tyler’s face. It wasn’t a happy look even though he looked amused. No…it was predatory. He wanted to handle this and was going to. The energy, the gleam in his eye. It suited him. Like he was suddenly thrust into his element, and everything was clicking into place. That glint was that of a hunter, like he’d smelled contractual blood and was about to go legal on it.
“You don’t have to do this,” she murmured.
“Not the right answer,” he teased, whispering.
She scoffed and fake swatted at him as he ducked and grinned.
She rolled her eyes, staring at the receiver held outward.
“I’ll take care of this in ten minutes flat,” he pressed on a whisper.
Her eyes searched his. Her lips twisted on a smile as his eyes dipped to her mouth. “You can talk to T—Mr. Dixon, Chet. That’s fine.”
“Attagirl,” Tyler mouthed with a sexy notch of the chin and wedged the phone to his ear. “All right, Chet. Start from the beginning.”