A snort of laughter from beside me sends a fresh wave of irritation through my body. I turn my head—carefully this time—to see Cora with her hand clapped over her mouth, shoulders shaking with concealed mirth.
I shoot her a look, but it only seems to fuel her amusement. Her giggles grow louder, and my jaw clenches. This woman is going to be the death of me.
“Something funny?” I growl, trying to adjust my position without causing further harm or embarrassment.
Cora bites her lip, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. “Not a thing, Goliath. Not a single thing.”
The nickname grates on my nerves. I’m used to being the big guy, the intimidating presence. It’s welcome in my profession.
But right now, crammed into this tin can on wheels, I’m about as intimidating as a bear in a tutu.
“Why don’t you have a normal car?” I grumble, frustration getting the better of me. “You’re rich, aren’t you?”
“This is a normal car,” she retorts, amusement still dancing in her eyes. “What do you usually drive?”
I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off. “Wait, you have a license, right?”
The question catches me off guard. Do I look like some kind of amateur?
“Yes,” I growl, my patience hanging by a thread. “Of course I have a license. And I have a truck. One that’s suitable for people, not dwarfs.”
She laughs again, the sound both irritating and oddly melodic. “I need to travel a lot between clients, and it’s easier for me to find parking in the city this way. And I don’t like driving those huge vehicles.”
Of course, she’d prioritize convenience over safety. “Those huge vehicles, as you call them, are much safer than this matchbox,” I argue, professionalism warring with exasperation. “And if you had a driver, you wouldn’t need to look for parking. This won’t work.”
Decision made, I pull out my phone and start typing. The sooner we get a proper vehicle, the better.
“What are you doing?” she asks, curiosity replacing amusement in her voice.
“Texting,” I reply without looking up. “Asking to rent a more appropriate car from the expenses budget.”
As I hit send, I silently pray for patience. It’s going to be a long day and an even longer assignment if every interaction with Cora is going to be like this. But I’m a professional. I’ve faced down armed men and navigated war zones. I can handle one stubborn, infuriating woman.
The car’s engine purrs to life as I adjust the mirrors, aware of Cora beside me. I hope for silence, but of course, Little Trouble can’t keep quiet for long.
“So...” she starts, and I brace myself. “Were you in the military?”
I keep my eyes fixed on the road, jaw clenching. “Yes.”
“Can you answer with more than one-word sentences?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes.”
She huffs. Good. I keep my answers short, hoping she’ll take the hint. She doesn’t.
“Where were you stationed in the Army?”
“I was in the Navy,” My grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Iraq.”
“Oh wow. Were you in combat?”
Unbidden memories flash through my mind—sand, blood, the crack of gunfire. My chest constricts. “Yes.” The word comes out as a growl.
“Want to talk about it?”
I glance at her, surprised by the sudden gentleness in her voice. “No.”
She falls silent, and I feel a twinge of...something. Regret? I shouldn’t. This is just a job.
