Her nervous tic sends an instant rush of fire to places it damn well shouldn’t.
I pinch my jaw.
Yeah, I need her gone as fast as possible, along with that tiger, and it’s not just the danger they pose.
The longer they’re here, the more I realize it’s not even a question—bad things will happen.
I’ve got half a mind to load up her cat and offer to haul them both down to Wyoming myself, except she looks at me again. The girl’s a blue-eyed medusa, and my train of thought is already flying off the cliff as she opens those pert strawberry lips.
“Well, come to think of it, the truck sorta jerks whenever I’d turn left on ramps or streets going through little towns. I just figured that was the trailer or something. If it’s not that...” She huffs out a breath. “Crap.”
“Told ya. Classic case of bent tie-rod if I ever heard it.” I’d already believed Weston. Having her confirm it was just for her benefit.
I wish like hell it wasn’t.
I really need her out of here, dammit.
“Call me crazy, but here’s a thought,” she says, brightening and snapping her fingers. “I’ll buy a truck! There must be somebody around here willing to part ways with wheels able to pull a trailer?”
My brows go up.
“Using your unlimited spending credit card?” I try to soften the blow.
“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly.
It’s hard not to groan.
Instead, I level a solid stare on her. “So anyone looking for you can track your purchase nice and neat, huh? Find out what you bought and when?”
For a second, her mouth opens, then closes again into a thin frowning line.
Her eyes grow as round as quarters before her shoulders droop.
“Oh,” she mutters sadly.
My heart doubles over for the poor girl. She obviously has no clue about the weight of the situation she’s put herself in—the same trouble I’ve stepped in by helping her.
She also doesn’t know the first damn thing about keeping a low profile.
Not good.
“Tell me this. Did you use your card on your way here?” I ask, studying her closely.
Sighing, she runs a hand through her wavy brown hair, making her bangs bounce as they fall back in place.
“No. I’m sure I didn’t. The truck had a full tank of gas. I never stopped until it up and died at your place.”
“Thank God for that.” Relief escapes my lungs. “Rule number one of not being found: you don’t use plastic to pay for anything. No fill-ups, no fast food, definitely no ATMs. It’s cold hard cash or nothing.”
She nods slowly, then shakes her head and looks down at the floor. I know a look of shame and I feel for her.
I’m not here to lecture her into the ground, just help jog her common sense.
Also wish I could stop fucking noticing her so much.
Only, my traitor eyes flick down, staring at her bare feet with their pink-painted toenails, shifting slightly apart as she ponders.
The grey leggings she’s wearing today show off her legs as much as the leggings did last night. The pink t-shirt with a cartoon tiger on it defines the curve of her chest a lot more than the baggy sweatshirt last night had.
Without realizing it, I suck in a sharp breath and hold it.
Christ. How much torture can a man take?
A lightning bolt attraction is the absolute last thing I need in my life right now.
Actually, make that second to the last. Because the biggest blunder in my entire life would be catching feelings—any feelings at all—for this frayed slip of a woman and her homeless tiger.
What the hell happened to me last night?
Is it just a twisted dream?
Am I gonna wake up without Willow and Bruce and a colossal mess on my hands?
A man can still hope, even if the sad pout on her lips tells me I’ll never be so lucky to pinch myself and make it go away.
“Grady, I have to say...I’m sorry. I truly am. This isn’t your problem, and—”
“Enough. Save the apologies.”
I hold up a hand, needing her to zip it. If what she says is true, that there’s some sort of illegal black-market animal shit going on here in North Dakota, she could be in real danger.
Probably already is.
And that makes me the asshole who should be apologizing for not giving her total assurance I’ve got her back.
Trouble is, I don’t know how to help her. Not with this insanity.
I’m a thirty-six-year-old bartender and business owner pushing forty sooner than I’d like. Juggling danger like falling knives ended for me the day I hung up my Army sniper rifle.
I straight-up don’t know enough about the illegal animal trade to save her bacon.
I’ve never heard of tiger wine, and I wish I fucking hadn’t when the fact that it exists makes me gag.
Still, I’ve got connections.
If anybody would know about this illegal bullshit or where to find out more about it, and would tell me, it’s my buddy, Quinn Faulkner.