Or—
“Wait!” I called out, louder than I meant to.
Charlie paused, hand already on the door handle, and turned back around slowly. Like he knew he’d won.
Dammit.
I lifted my chin. “You’re offering a ride?”
2
CHARLIE
Ididn’t want to offer her a ride. Hell, I didn’t even want to talk to her. But there was something about the way she barked orders into that phone like she was running a small dictatorship that made me stick around. Not because I liked it—but because I needed the entertainment.
The tarmac was sweating, the air thick enough to drink, and there she was: melting in designer sandals, dressed like she was headed to a fashion shoot instead of dragging her luggage through Charleston’s coastal soup. I’d been under that plane fixing a misaligned flap, trying to keep cool and mind my business, but her voice had cut through the humidity like a blade. Sharp, rich, irritated. Made me laugh.
You could always spot the ones who never heard the word “no” in their lives. They wore it in their posture. In the way they squinted like the world owed them better lighting. And this one—she wore it in spades.
I hadn’t planned on saying a damn thing. But when she turned and glared at the truck like it had personally offended her, I cracked.
“You looked like you were about to start throwing shoes,” I said. “Figured I’d brace for impact.”
She turned that laser-beam glare on me. I expected her to stomp off or call security. Instead, she squared up. “You work here?”
“Something like that.”
She sniffed. Literally sniffed. I swear, if she could’ve conjured a scented handkerchief to hold over her nose, she would’ve. My shirt was stained from a morning of grease and sweat, and I didn’t care. I never did. I’d earned the right to wear whatever the hell I wanted.
She muttered something about Hilton Garden Inns and then demanded I go “find someone in charge.” Like she hadn’t just insulted every inch of my existence.
That was when I offered the ride. Just to see what she’d do. Like poking a bear with a stick.
She hesitated. For all her bravado, her eyes flicked to the gate, then back to me. The tarmac shimmered in waves. Her blouse was sticking to her back. And her patience—if she’d ever had any—was gone.
“Wait!” she called, and I turned, taking my sweet time about it.
“You’re offering a ride?” she asked again, voice all clipped and formal, like I was a valet who’d shown up late.
I jerked a thumb toward my truck. “If you don’t mind slumming it.”
She narrowed her eyes like she was trying to determine whether I had working air conditioning or an unregistered meth lab in the back seat. Then she walked over, slowly, like each step was a concession.
I opened the passenger door with a mock flourish. “After you, princess.”
She climbed in, wrinkling her nose at the interior. Yeah, it smelled like grease and leather and maybe a little too much pine air freshener. No, I didn’t care.
“Buckle up,” I said, slamming my door. “It’s not a Bentley, but she gets the job done.”
Her lips tightened, but she clicked her seatbelt and said nothing. For the first thirty seconds of the drive, the silence was thick. Not awkward—just charged. Like we were both waiting for the other one to start something.
She broke first.
“You know,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses even though we were shaded by the windshield tint, “most people would be flattered I chose their vehicle.”
I scoffed. “You didn’t choose it. You got stranded. I’m the lesser of two evils.”
Her lips twitched. Just a flicker, like she wanted to smile but didn’t want me to see it.
