Wolfe Wanting. Joan Hohl
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“I checked with the mechanic at the garage yesterday afternoon. It's totaled, a write-off. The entire front end crumpled. We couldn't lift any fingerprints, because the door had wrinkled. I'm sorry.”
“Why?” Though her shoulders slumped, Megan gave him a tired smile. “You didn't do it, I did.”
Since there really was no argument against her assertion, Royce didn't bother attempting one. “You're alive,” he said, offering her a compassionate smile as he unlocked and held open the passenger side door for her. Then, in silence, he circled around to the driver's side.
“Buckle up,” he said without thinking, as he slid behind the steering wheel.
“I usually do.” Megan's tone bordered on sarcasm. “I only ever forget when I'm in trauma.”
“Happens a lot, does it?” Royce tried a teasing note, in hopes of defusing with a touch of humor the sudden tension humming inside the confines of the car.
Megan carefully connected the belt before slanting a wry look at him. “Trauma? Or—?
“Trauma,” he quickly inserted, along with a grin.
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