Out of Uniform (Wingmen Warriors 14)

Her gaze upward seemed never ending, taking this guy to at least a few inches over six feet. Hmm…he had a dimpled chin. She found that reassuring, and she needed reassurance more than she needed an hour in front of that roaring fireplace.

Broad cheekbones stretched just below slate-blue eyes.

Brooding eyes stared without a flicker of recognition.

His hand dropped away. “Come on inside before we heat the whole state.”

“Sorry about that.” She sidestepped him and studied the breadth of his shoulders as he wrestled the door closed. Heaven help her if he wasn’t trustworthy.

He pivoted to face her, scratching a hand along his close-cropped black hair. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

That was it? All he had to say?

There went any hope of him knowing her. She wanted to pitch all her fears right at his feet, but feared she was more likely to toss her cookies.

That Air Force T-shirt seemed to hint she could trust him, but still. He worked here, so whatever connection he had to the military was over or through a friend. Maybe he was just an air show junkie, and God, her mind was rambling.

Bottom line, she was helpless to anyone who might take advantage of her.

A logical voice urged her to call the police, and she would, as soon as the phone lines were back in working order and she could unscramble her mind enough to think clearly. Meanwhile, she would follow her instincts, instincts being all she had.

Moving on to discovering what the register held. “I’m ready to check out.”

“No need. You’re already paid up. Just drop off the key.”

She stuffed her hand in her pocket and clutched her fingers around the chilly steel beside her wad of cash and the EpiPen—not that she even knew what allergies to avoid.

If she passed the key over, she would be officially homeless. So what if her only bed waited in a rustic motel so old it didn’t even have key cards?

She stifled a hysterical laugh. She knew about key cards, yet didn’t know her own name. “When’s checkout time again?”

“Noon.”

The ancient Field and Stream wall clock seemed to mock her, ticking away those last twenty-one minutes. She sifted through her muddled concentration for her next question.

His cool eyes settled on her dress. “Uh, but you can stay longer if you need to. I’ve got a busload of senior citizens due in, but not until this evening, if they can make it through the storm.”

At least she could stay a few more hours without using her precious store of cash. “Do you mind printing out a copy of my receipt?”

“A copy?”

“For tax purposes.”

“Tax purposes?” His eyes slid down her slinky red dress then up again without censure, but with obvious disbelief. “Sure. I gave one to your, uh, husband, but it’s no trouble to shoot out another.”

Husband. The word surged through her with an odd mixture of hope and the metallic taste of fear. Where was he? “Thanks. He lost his copy. I’m supposed to pick up another one, you know, taxes and all that.”

“For your husband.” Those brooding eyes shifted from her to the empty parking lot before returning.

“He should be back soon.” She resisted the urge to fidget like a first-day kindergartner. “Could I see the owner?” Preferably, a much older, grandfatherly kind of guy without piercing eyes that saw too much.

“That would be me.”

“Oh. Clyde?”

“Clyde was my father. He’s dead. The place belongs to me and my sister now.”

He didn’t seem to be grieving when he mentioned his dad, so she didn’t bother with condolences. “And you are?”