Page 4 of Bottles & Blades

She pushes my chest.Hard.

Yeah, she’s strong.

Yeah, there’s a sick part of me that likes that, that wants it.

Someone who’s kind but who won’t bend over backward to accommodate me. Someone who can withstand the important shit, the tough shit, and not break.

“Move,”she snaps again.

I focus back on the tiny slip of woman in front of me and shake my head.

I’m probably delusional.

That woman doesn’t exist.

Her mouth drops open and I realize she thinks my head shake is me silently telling her that I’m not moving.

I start to conjure up the words to put her at ease.

But…they don’t come.

Especially, when her deep brown eyes spark up at me, a strand of dark hair falling over her forehead. “I said,move!”She shoves at me again.

“Sit still,” I order, turning her body so she’s facing forward in the seat then reaching up and snagging the end of the seatbelt, leaning over her to snap it into place.

“Excuse—”

I slam the door, hitting the button on the key fob to engage the locks.

Won’t do to have her escaping now, will it?

I round the hood, hit the button once—convenient that it only unlocks my side—and climb into the driver’s seat.

“What the hell do you think that you’re doing right now?” she hisses.

I shove the keys in the ignition, start up the engine. “Paying you back.”

She gasps and yanks at the door handle.

“Paying you back for thegroceries,” I clarify, hitting the locks again.

Christ, she acts like I’m a serial killer.

And yeah, maybe Iamacting more than a little suspicious.

But I hadn’t missed her little stunt with putting her items back, know it was because she bailed me out. I don’t know where the fuck I’ve lost my wallet or phone, but I’m not going to miss the chance to repay her for her kindness.

She falls quiet, and I can feel her glaring at me as I navigate my way onto the freeway.

But at least she stops trying to unlock her door.

Likely because launching herself from the road and tucking and rolling is risky at ten miles an hour but positively dangerous when I’m trucking along at sixty-five.

“Look,” I say, “My office is a couple minutes down the road. I’ll write you a check and drive you back to your car.” I flick my eyes to the side, smile at her, but I don’t think she finds it reassuring, considering that her glare intensifies. “You’ll be back before your ice cream melts,” I add.

A long pause. “I didn’t buy ice cream.” The words are quiet, so damned quiet.

I think of her putting items back and I clench my teeth together.

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