“Oh, you’re here. Good,” she says, voice dripping with false sweetness. “We’re leaving. I’m going to the gym.”
My jaw tightens. A public gym. Perfect. Just another security nightmare to add to my growing pain list.
“You have a gym at home,” I point out, keeping my tone neutral.
She arches an eyebrow, challenge written across herface. “Observant, aren’t we? Did you enjoy your little breaking-and-entering tour of my house?”
I bite back a retort. This woman has a talent for getting under my skin faster than any drill sergeant I’ve ever known.
“I observed. I didn’t snoop,” I reply.
She makes a show of trying to get past me, and I step aside, watching her strut to her car. Every step screams defiance. My job would be so much easier if she’d just cooperate.
I follow, hyper-aware of our surroundings. Old habits die hard, and in my line of work, they keep you alive.
“How is this supposed to work?” she asks, whirling to face me, and I almost slam into her. “I drive, and you sit next to me? Do you have your own car?”
I frown. “You don’t have a driver?”
Her eyes flash, and I brace myself for another verbal sparring match. “No, I don’t have a driver. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not entirely helpless.”
I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. Every interaction with her is like navigating a minefield.
“I’ll drive,” I state, leaving no room for argument.
Of course, she argues anyway.
“Why? You think I can’t drive because I’m a woman?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I’m not some hysterical girl. And I know how to drive,” she says.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. “I don’t think you’re hysterical, but I do think you’re jumping to conclusions,” I explain, keeping my tone even. “I’ll drive because it’s part of my job. In case we need to evacuate fast. I’ve been trained for emergency situations.”
“Oh,” she says, the wind momentarily taken out of her sails.
I press on. “I’m just doing my job. Keys.” The words come out gruffer than I intend, my patience wearing thin.
She narrows her eyes, searching my face. I keep my expression neutral, years of military training coming in handy. But I can’t help the small thrill of satisfaction at throwing her off balance. It’s petty, I know, but this woman brings out sides of me I thought I’d left behind.
“Right, because we might need to outrun a horde of soccer moms,” she quips, digging through her bag. “God forbid they catch us with last season’s water bottle.”
My lips twitch. Damn it. I school my features back into neutrality, holding out my hand for the keys.
With a dramatic eye-roll that makes me want to grind my teeth, she fishes out her keys and tosses them in a high arc. I snatch them from the air, a tiny victory in this ongoing battle of wills.
Then I see her car. If you can call this toy-sized contraption a car.
I circle it, my eyes scanning our surroundings. Force of habit. Opening the passenger door, I usher Cora in, my hand hovering near the small of her back but not quite touching.Rule number three.
As she slides in, I catch a whiff of her perfume. Floral, with a hint of something spicy. I shake my head, banishing the thought.
Now comes the real challenge: fitting my six-foot four-inch frame into this glorified roller skate she calls a car. I yank open the driver’s door, eyeing the cramped space with growing dread. This is going to be about as comfortable as squeezing into a child’s playhouse.
I duck my head, wedging one shoulder in, then the other. My knees bump against the steering wheel as Istruggle to fit my legs under the dashboard. Every movement is an exercise in contortion.
“Son of a—” my grunt cuts off as my head thunks against the roof. Pain blossoms across my scalp, and I bite back a string of curses that would make a child blush.
