Page 40 of Wild Then Wed
Of course. Because one granola bar at six a.m. was apparently not enough to power me through taming a traumatized horse.
“You want to grab lunch?”
I stop mid-step. Not dramatically—just long enough for my brain to stage a quick emergency meeting about how this is an obviously bad idea. I can already feel my face heating up, which is rude, because I specifically didnotauthorize that kind of response.
He definitely heard my stomach, which means this is a pity lunch. He’s offering because I sound like I’m one skipped meal away from collapsing—not because he actually wants to spend time with me.
I clear my throat. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
His eyebrows lift. “You sure? Don’t let the fact that I’m wildly annoying get in the way of basic nutrition.”
“You’re marginally less annoying than most people.”
He presses a hand to his chest like I’ve just declared my love for him. “High praise, coming from you.”
I start walking away. I’m escaping. That’s my plan, and it’s a good one. But then he says, “I’ll drive us to the main house.”
I open my mouth to object—again—but he cuts me off. “Just come, Wren.”
God. Now if I say no, I’ll look like an asshole. And while I don’t usually mind being an asshole, this place is paying me well. And he’s the son of the person signing my checks.
I sigh. “Fine.”
He grins and leads the way to his black Audi SUV. It’s clean. Too clean. Not a speck of dust on it. He either washes it obsessively or never does anything remotely dirty.
When he opens my door, I stop. “What are you doing?”
He blinks. “Opening your door.”
“Iknowthat. But why?”
He leans slightly, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret. “Unfortunately, my mother raised me to be decent. And decency includes door-opening where women are concerned.”
He waits. I climb in with an exaggerated eye roll.
He closes it gently, walks around, and slides into the driver’s side. The inside of the car smells like mountain air and man. It’s warm. Big. Infuriatingly nice.
Naturally, I open the glovebox.
Empty. Just a pack of spearmint gum and a metal tin of Altoids that probably came from the year 1987.
He glances over. “Why are you going through my glovebox?”
I shrug. “Why is there nothing in it?”
He grins. “Because I don’t have anything to put in there?”
I narrow my eyes. “Bullshit. Everyone puts everything in their glovebox. Flashlights. Receipts. Tire gauges. Pens that don’t work.”
He shrugs, one hand on the wheel. “What does that say about me, then?”
I look around at the spotless interior. “That you might be a serial killer. A good one, at that. You leave no evidence behind.”
He chuckles, quiet and warm and just annoying enough that I have to look out the window to stop myself from smiling.
“You’re funny, Wren,” he says after a second.
I glance over at him before I can stop myself.
