Page 55 of Bracing The Storm

“Lori, wait up,” Patrick’s voice calls after me. I ignore it and head out into the cold.

Chapter Eighteen

The wind whips my hair into my face, tossing me left and right like a rag doll. I’ve barely made it a few feet down the road—not for lack of trying—when a car revs up behind me. I don’t need to turn to recognize Patrick’s monstrosity of a truck so I keep pressing forward, choosing to ignore him.

The window rolls down and he yells over the howling noise, “Get in before you catch your death.”

I shake my head, mostly because my face feels so numb I can’t open my mouth to yell back at him.

“Come on. Don’t be a mule. Get in and I’ll drive you home.”

Hesitating, I scan the closed shutters rattling in their foundation and the tree branches shaking in the wind. Even though I stepped out of that pub barely a few minutes ago, I’m already frozen to the core and will probably have turned into an ice cube by the time I got home.

The engine whirrs; the warmth of the truck is calling out to me. All I want is to snuggle up in that comfortable passenger seat rather than face the cold. But I don’t trust my instincts around the man behind the wheel.

He’s too good-looking.

Too confident.

Too everything I’ve always tried to avoid in a man.

The wind blows as if in response, seeping under my clothes and making me feel like a million of tiny needles are piercing my skin all at once.

“Lori! Get in,” Patrick yells.

Ah, what the heck!

“Fine.” I open the car door and jump into the passenger seat, almost twisting my ankle in the process.

Damn those heels!

“Are you okay? Do you need help?” His concerned gaze brushes over me, settling on my heels, and his expression changes into a frown. I can almost see the workings of his mind written all over his face. He knows about my date with Duncan. Adding the heels to the picture, and he’s probably attributing my bad mood to my date not going according to plan.

It couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I’m peachy,” I mumble under my breath.

He speeds off down the street, still driving like a maniac in spite of the miserable weather. It’s like he’saskingto be killed, what with the street being slick from the rain and the streetlamps going out.

“I think there’s been a power cut,” Patrick says. “We haven’t had one in?—”

“In ages?” I suggest.

“No. More like last year. A few months, tops. Storms can be quite nasty around this part of the world.” He shrugs. “Once you’ve been living here for a while, you’ll be used to it.”

I throw him a sideways glance, wondering whether he’s being sarcastic or whether he really thinks I’ll be staying long enough to get used to the coastline and tempestuous side of Ireland. His eyes are glued to the road though, and half of his face is bathed in darkness, which makes it impossible to read his expression.

The truck splutters for a moment, jerking me forward in my seat.

“Not again,” Patrick mumbles. “Come on, baby. You can do it. Just a few more miles, and then you can take the night off.” He’s talking to his truck like it’s a real living and breathing thing, his voice oozing gentleness. If it was me, and I had the padded wallet of a famous rock star, I would have long sent it off to the nearest scrapyard.

Then again, maybe he isn’t remotely rich, which is why he needs to hold on to this old piece of metal.

“Why aren’t you buying a new car? I’m sure you can afford something else. And I always figured someone like you would rather be seen in a Ferrari thanthis.” I gesture around me to bring my point across.

“Someone like me?” His brows shoot up. “You mean the rock star part, I assume.”

For some reason, I had harbored the stupid hope it was just a mistake. A misunderstanding on my part, maybe. But hearing it from him makes the whole thing real.

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