Choices, choices.
Another car crawls up the rutted fire road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Why am I working in Grand Central Station? This is Mountainsville, the capital of Nowheresville. There shouldn’t be so much traffic. I don’t have to look. I really don’t have to.
Of course, I look.
How can I not? If my life were a horror movie, I’d totally go into that empty room or check out the nice, dark, spooky woods. And, oh, God, that is a patrol car. I can’t read the words on the passenger side door, can’t tell if this is the local sheriff or if Thad has found me. I recognize the cold clench of my stomach, followed by the wave of nausea. Today’s lunch promptly transforms into one of those little rowboat things that the waves toss around ruthlessly. Still thinking I’m overreacting? Just wait until I hurl on your feet. Hoping stupidly for a coincidence, I crane my neck, trying to see.
Someone moves in behind me. Someone male and large, who’s scuffing his feet deliberately because he’s afraid he’ll scare the shit out of me. The hotshots can be a real sweet bunch, but I’ve already overdosed on scared for today.
“Be right with you.” I twist my neck wishing I’d paid more attention to that yoga thing Olivia had tried to teach me. Olivia’s the second member of the Break Up Club, and she’s a bit of a health and fitness nut. Where I’m a peanut butter milkshake, she’s an organic kale smoothie. As you’d expect, I’m about as flexible as PVC piping, and I still can’t get a good look at the car. Go. Stay. My body practically explodes trying to choose between fight or flight.
The car’s driver is clearly male, but I can’t make out anything else through the tinted glass. I’ll have to wait for him to get out, and then I’ll have only a few seconds to decide. It’s not like I can announce that the good deputy is a thieving bastard. I already tried that and got precisely nowhere. Sure, I know that he broke into Mrs. Joan’s house, stole enough jewelry to purchase a small island in the South Pacific, and then covered his thieving ass by setting the house on fire. Problem is, I caught him leaving—but I have no proof. It’s my word against his. And no one believed me. My only consolation is that Mrs. Joan wasn’t home—thank God for Bunco night at the senior center—so no one was hurt. Physically, at least. I imagine the older woman mourns the loss of a houseful of memories that no insurance check can replace.
I lean a little further.
Is the door opening? Is he just sitting there, trying to torture me? Maybe I should walk out with my hands up.
“Problem?” Oh, the surprise. The universe has decided to go all in on my helping of trouble today. Because that too-male, too-interested voice belongs to one Pick Revere. Like whiskey going down, his voice is all rough-smooth, golden edges. And just like whiskey, I’ll have nothing but regrets in the morning.
I go with the safe answer. The so-not-true answer. “Nope.”
“You sure?” He sounds unconvinced—and concerned. As if he has a stake in my personal well-being, or at least some kind of interest. Plus, he’s called me out on lying about my mood before.
Somehow, I’m even less surprised by his pursuing me than Thad. He might have removed his mouth from mine after our kiss, but he didn’t pull back. Not really. I’d beat feet back behind my table ready to give the man all the pancakes he could eat, but he’d stood his ground. I’m pretty certain he’d been five seconds from clearing the table and repeating our kiss, and I hadn’t known how to feel about that. Now, as he steps closer, I swear I can feel the heat of his big body despite the rapidly dwindling stretch of empty space between us.
And there’s the desire I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist, the insta-lust that just shouldn’t happen to mostly-good girls who are trying really hard to start their lives over. I should pick a mantra. Some kind of reminder word that freaking encapsulates what I’m doing here.
Solitude.
Independence.
Absofreakinglutely.
Oooh, that last one is a good one.
Unfortunately, nothing seems to cure me of wanting to jump Pick and see if he’d be open to a game of hide-the-sausage. The extra dirty version, naturally. I remind myself that I’ve declared my independence from the male of the species. Every day is the Fourth of July on my calendar. I’m not dating, and I’m definitely not putting myself in another no-win situation with a take-charge alpha. Everyone here will take his word over mine any day of the week and twice on Sunday.