The Things She Says. Kat Cantrell
Читать онлайн книгу.
settled behind the wheel, he slipped on his sunglasses and said, “I’ve already checked out, so where would you like me to take you? Your girlfriend’s house, the one from last night?”
She stared out the window, pointedly not looking at him. “I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than that.”
VJ flat-handed sunglasses against her face and debated how to explain she was going to Dallas without coming across as a freeloader, or worse, a stalker.
Her only plan had died the second Kris held her and let her cry on his fifty-dollar T-shirt. How was she going to convince him to let her tag along when she had nothing to give him in return? Well, nothing other than an annoying set of calf eyes, cowardice disguised as automotive expertise and twenty-six dollars, twenty of which Kris had tipped her in the first place.
“Complicated is my specialty,” he commented mildly and drove to the motel lot exit. His graceful fingers draped over the wheel casually, as if he was so in tune with the car, it anticipated his bidding instead of relying on mere mechanical direction. “Right or left?”
She inhaled sharply and the scent of new car and fresh leather hit her like a freight train. A fitting combination for a new start.
Might as well go for broke.
“Left and then another right at the Feed and Seed. Go about five hundred miles and then another right. That’ll put me pretty close to where I want to go.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely and slapped a palm to his chest, Pledge of Allegiance style. “A woman after my own heart. You’re running away. Why didn’t you say so?”
Because running away sounded so juvenile, especially out of his mouth.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Yeah.” That slow, sexy smile spread across his face. “Don’t worry, I like it.”
“Hmmpf. I’d rather be a woman of mystery and secrets.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” His gaze shifted to the highway and stayed there. “You just think you would. Secretive women are irritating.”
He meant someone specific. Her curiosity spiked, but the firm set of his mouth said don’t ask. So she bit her tongue and mirrored his feigned fascination with the road stretched ahead through the windshield. Little Crooked Creek fell away at a rapid pace. Good riddance.
After a while, she might miss someone or something other than Pamela Sue, Bobby Junior and Tackle. Mama’s grave. Pearl probably. The sunset against a mountain backdrop.
For now, the call of adventure and a new life drowned out whispers of the past.
Kris nodded toward the floorboard, where a broken-in black leather bag was wedged under the dash. “Find my MP3 player and pick out some music. It’s a long drive to Dallas.”
“You’re going to take me?” She’d been studiously avoiding the subject, hoping to segue back into it later. Like after it was too late to turn around.
“You’re in the car, and I’m driving to Dallas. Seems like that’s going to be the end result.”
Relief lessened the weight on her shoulders. Nine hours in the company of Kris. Nine hours in an amazing car with her Greek god in shining armor. It wasn’t nearly long enough, but far more than she deserved. “You aren’t mad?”
With a half laugh, he said, “About what? Didn’t we go through this already?”
Sinking low in the seat, she tried to make herself as small as possible. “Because I wasn’t honest with you. I practically forced you into taking on an unwanted passenger.”
After a beat of silence, he tapped the steering wheel in a staccato rhythm. “I drink coffee black, I refuse to screw the lid on the toothpaste when I’ll have to take it back off again, and no one—no one—can force me to do something I don’t want to do.” A wealth of pain and untold history underpinned the sentiments, darkening his tone. She hated being responsible for bringing back bad memories. “Now you know the three most important things about me. Next time, ask instead of making assumptions.”
Her fantasy gained dimensions and layers. And she craved more depth, more knowledge, more understanding of this extraordinary person in the next seat.
“Oh, no. You busted my deal all to pieces. I can’t worship someone who doesn’t screw the lid back on the toothpaste.” She shook her head and tsked. “That’s wrong. What if it gets lost?”
His million-dollar smile burst into place, and she intended to keep it there. It was the one repayment she could give him. Of course, it was a win-win in her book.
“Lost? I throw it away. Waste of plastic.”
“Figures.”
The craving intensified. What kind of music did he listen to? She hooked the bag and pulled it into her lap, then rifled through it, absorbing, touching. These were Kris’s personal belongings. A green toothbrush. A stick of deodorant. A brush with a black stretchy band twisted around the handle. She’d never seen him with his hair tied back and hoped she never did. His loose, shoulder-length style was nothing short of mouthwatering.
“Having trouble finding it?” he asked a touch sarcastically, as if he knew she was a heartbeat from inhaling the citrusy scent of his deodorant.
“I confess. I’m actually a reporter for a celebrity magazine doing an expose on independent film directors. And their luggage.” She was rambling. Spitting out whatever came to her mind because her fingers had closed around a small, square box with a hinged lid that every woman on the planet could identify. Blindfolded. “You caught me.”
She dropped the ring box, but her hand still stung. Why did an engagement ring in the bag of a man she’d just met put a lump in her throat? So he wasn’t engaged to Kyla yet, but obviously it was only a matter of time. Better all the way around to accept that he was completely unavailable. Much, much better. Then she could make a clean break. Wipe him from her mind once he left her in Dallas.
He glanced at her over the top of his sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She yanked the only electronic device from the bottom of the bag and waved it, hoping it wasn’t a newfangled garage-door opener. “Got it. Let’s see what we have here. How do I turn it on?”
“You’ve never used an MP3 player?” Amusement colored his question. “Touch the screen to wake it up.”
“It’s asleep?” Fascinated, she flipped the gizmo over and right-side up again. “Does it snore and hog all the covers, too?”
His rich laughter washed over her and she wallowed in it. He reached over, slid a fingertip across the device and colors illuminated the screen. Colors she barely registered because his arm pressed against her shoulder, sparking like a firecracker in a Coke bottle as he deftly tapped the MP3 player.
The brush of body parts was totally innocent but the pang low in her belly unleashed a flood of longing more akin to original sin.
“There’s the song list,” he offered nonchalantly. “Pick one.”
She glanced down at the screen, contracting her diaphragm until she could speak again. “I don’t know any of these artists.” Was that her voice? She cleared her throat and prayed it eliminated the huskiness. “Any Kenny Chesney or Miranda Lambert?”
Nope, still croaking like a late-night ad for a 1-900 number.
“There’s no country music on this and there’s not going to be.” He took the player from her and stuck it in the holder on the dash. Two taps later, a stringed instrument wailed through the speakers, the melody so instantly heartbreaking, it stole her breath. She’d never imagined such passion could be poured into music.
“The musician is Johannes Linstead,” he said. “Do you like it?”
“It’s