“Just leave the suitcase—I’ll load it,” Keen calls to me.
That damn chivalry, he can shove it right—well, you know where. “I got it.”
To my surprise, the lights flick and the trunk pops right away. I had forgotten the trunk was in the front, so I’m thankful for that little hint. Still, I leave my bag on the walk for him.
The beep-beep of the lock and the creak of the trunk mask the murmur of voices from the front porch, but I don’t even bother trying to hear what Keen and Brooklyn are discussing.
I really don’t care.
In fact, as far as I’m concerned, the past is long erased. Right now, Keen Masters is nothing more than a two-week inconvenience that I have been saddled with.
And trust me when I say I know just how to handle inconveniences.
Maggie
I’ve never owned a Louisville Slugger.
In fact, I’m not certain I’ve ever even held one in the palm of my hands, but right now, I really wish I had one, and whether it comes in maple, birch, or ash, I really don’t care.
It’s not a baseball I’m dreaming of hitting with it. Oh, and just to be clear, it’s not him, either. I wouldn’t want to mar his gorgeous drop-dead looks, even if I do think he is a giant dick.
Pairing my phone with his radio is done easily enough. The rain is coming down in sheets and causing nothing but chaos on the freeway. Deep in concentration, he doesn’t even notice what I’m doing. Then again, we haven’t spoken a word since I laid on his horn to hurry him up.
After tossing my suitcase in the trunk, along with his duffle and suit bag in the mini seat behind us, he got in, started the car, and has yet to glance over at me.
As always, the tension is thick between us, but I’ve devised a way to help clear the air, or perhaps not.
It’s a toss-up.
But this is war, now.
The screen on my phone blinks PAIRED, and just like that I have control of the radio. Goodbye hard rock, hello country. Now, I don’t usually listen to country, but when I was looking for anti–Valentine’s Day songs, I came across this little gem and downloaded it.
Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” blares through the BOSE speakers, and Keen’s head snaps in my direction. “What the hell, Maggie?”
Ignore your name on his lips.
Luckily I’m able to.
My smile couldn’t be brighter. “What?” I ask innocently. “I thought a little variety would be nice since we’re going to be in the car for a while.”
Coming to a complete standstill on the pavement, I watch as Keen’s body stiffens, and then he stares over at me with an infuriating imperiousness. And yet, he remains silent.
That is unacceptable.
Stretching, I arch my back. “This is such a good song. Don’t you think?”
His eyes rake down my body, and they take their time drinking me in on the climb back up.
Under his heat-filled stare, it is hard not to squirm, but I manage. “Her voice is amazing.”
He looks away, returning his gaze to the rain coming down in buckets on his windshield. And then his lips twist as he uses the controls on his steering wheel to turn the music down.
We can’t have that, now, can we. I reach over and use the knob to turn it up, just in time for Carrie to sing about taking her Louisville Slugger to both headlights and then smashing a hole in all four tires of her ex-boyfriend’s pride and joy.
Now, Keen is not my boyfriend and never has been, and obviously cheating isn’t an issue, but cowardliness is, and this song seems oddly appropriate. Besides, the look on his face is priceless as the lyrics sink in.
Just for effect, I reach in my purse and jingle my keys as she sings about digging her key into the side of his car and then carving her name into his leather seats.
My fingers twitch at the thought, and for a moment I get caught up in the idea of doing it. Not that I ever would—I mean it’s not the car’s fault that its owner is such an ass.
The traffic starts moving and his leg jerks in an exaggerated motion to lay on the gas. “Don’t you dare!”
“Dare what?” I ask while blinking in mock confusion.
Those blue eyes pierce me. “You know what.”
My stomach does that thing again, but I ignore it, and then give him one of my flirty smiles that I swear makes his eyes dance.
It comes a little too late that my smile is not causing the gleam in his eyes. Rather, it’s Rod Stewart’s voice. “Maggie May” penetrates my ears, and it seems as if Keen somehow managed to fast-forward it right to the part where Rod sings about being kicked in the head.
That bastard!
My blood starts to heat. “That is really uncalled for,” I say through gritted teeth.