Today was not the day Little Miss Daisies in Her Hair would take a walk on the wild side.
I gave Wraith the fuck off nod, snatched Naomi’s precious coffee out of her hand, and headed down the sidewalk.
“Hey!”
She gave chase like I’d known she would. I could have taken her by the hand, but I wasn’t exactly a fan of the reaction I’d had when I touched her. It felt complicated. “Should have stayed in fucking bed,” I muttered.
“What is wrong with you?” Naomi demanded, jogging to catch up. She reached for her cup, but I held it just out of reach and kept walking.
“If you don’t want to end up hog-tied over the back of Wraith’s bike, then I suggest you get in my truck.”
The disheveled flower child muttered some uncomplimentary sounding things about my personality and anatomy.
“Look. If you can stop bein’ a pain in my ass for five whole minutes, I’ll take you to the station. You can get your damn car, and then you can get out of my life.”
“Has anyone ever told you you have the personality of a pissed-off porcupine?”
I ignored her and kept walking.
“How do I know you aren’t going to try to hog-tie me yourself?” she demanded.
I came to a stop and gave her a lazy once-over. “Baby, you’re not my type.”
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She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out and fall to the sidewalk. “Excuse me while I go cry myself a river.”
I stepped off the curb and opened the passenger door of my pickup. “Get in.”
“Your chivalry sucks,” she complained.
“Chivalry?”
“It means—”
“Jesus. I know what it means.”
And I knew what it meant that she’d use it in conversation. She had fucking flowers in her hair. The woman was a romantic. Another strike against her in my book. Romantics were the hardest women to shake loose. The sticky ones. The ones who pretended they could handle the whole “no strings” deal. Meanwhile, they plotted to become “the one,” trying to con men into meeting their parents and secretly looking at wedding dresses.
When she didn’t get in by herself, I reached past her and put her coffee into the cup holder.
“I am really not happy with you right now,” she said.
The space between our bodies was charged with the kind of energy I usually felt just before a good bar fight. Dangerous, adrenalizing. I didn’t much care for it.
“Get in the damn truck.”
Considering it a small miracle when she actually obeyed, I slammed the door on her scowl.
“Everything all right there, Knox?” Bud Nickelbee called from the doorway of his hardware store. He was dressed in his usual uniform of bib overalls and a Led Zepplin t-shirt. The ponytail he’d had for thirty years hung down his back, thin and gray, making him look like a heavier, less funny George Carlin.
“All good,” I assured him.
His gaze skated toward Naomi through the windshield. “Call me if you need help with the body.”
I climbed in behind the wheel and fired up the engine.
“A witness saw me get in this truck, so I’d think long and hard about murdering me at this point,” she said, pointing to Bud, who was still watching us.