The Things She Says(12)
“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.”