“Hey, it’s cool. I can get that.” She reached for the bag handle.
“I know,” he said, not releasing his grip. “But there is this new thing that I’m trying.”
She frowned a little, cocking her head. “Which is...?”
“Trying to be nicer,” he muttered in a gruff undertone.
That seemed to give her food for thought. “To me or in general?”
Sassy thing.“You, but got to say, Angel, you don’t make it easy.”
She stared boldly as he picked up the suitcase, refusing to blink first. Her hair was different this morning, down and soft around her face. And her white puffy jacket enhanced her dark hair and red lips—making for an arresting combination of Snow White and Lisbeth Salander fromThe Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
“You’re wearing lipstick,” he observed, opening up the passenger door for her.“So?” Her hand flew up as if to hide the evidence.
She was jumpy as a grasshopper in June. “Simmer down. So nothing.” He frowned. What had he said wrong now? “I’m just making a simple observation.”
“Yeah right.” The faintest trace of a snort.
By the time he’d walked around the front of the car, climbed inside and jammed his key into the ignition, nervous anticipation filled him to the brim. He had to play this exactly right or he was going to slosh shit over the side and make a mess of everything. “I said something wrong.” He waited a second. “What was it?”
“Nothing.” She waved one hand before plucking some invisible string from her denim-clad knee, a moment of vulnerability flickering across her face. “At least not technically. I just... Gah. It’s stupid. But please don’t tease me about makeup.”
Her surprise admission momentarily stunned him into silence. “I’m not following your train of thought.”
“Forget about it,” she said, mouth mashing into a hard line. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Okay. He didn’t speak woman, but something was definitely off. “I wasn’t teasing you, Neve.” He spoke her name with intention, wanting her to hear him. “Wear lipstick. Or don’t. What do I care? You look good either way. But I’m allowed to notice you. Making an observation doesn’t necessarily make me an asshole.”
She huffed a sigh. “You’re right.”
She’s shy.
The realization caught him by surprise. It was like peeking through a brick wall, and inside was a strange and beautiful garden.
“Hey. Listen up. I’ve got a proposal.” He turned and met her gaze straight on, elbow propped on the console. “What if we declare a truce for the weekend?”
Out of any of the millions of combinations of words he could have uttered, he appeared to have found the ones able to render her speechless. “Truce?” she repeated at last.
“Just until we get back and then you can return to your regularly scheduled loathing.”
“I don’t loathe you...” Her mouth slid into a half grin. “At least not all the time.”
“Hey, I get it.” He shrugged and started the car, the six-cylinder engine purring like a jungle cat. “For what it’s worth, Rovhal meansassholein Swedish. I’m third generation. My grandparents were farmers outside Älmhult.”
“Sorry, I’m not up to speed on Scandinavian geography.”
“In the south, not far from Denmark. Home of the first IKEA store.”
“For real?” That got her attention. “What a claim to fame.”
“There’s a museum.”
“What’s there?” She grinned. “Displays of flat packs with unfathomable names? Shrines to cheap Swedish meatballs?”
His brow creased. “I never went. My father wasn’t one for nostalgia... at least not until the end of his life.”
“Ah,” she said lightly, as if sensing they skated over conversational thin ice. “Well, at least that solves the mystery of Rovhal. I’d wondered.” She reached out a hand and when he shook it her palm was warm, her fingers soft, even as her shake was firm. “Nice to officially meet you, Rovhal. Since all is being revealed, mind cluing me in on what the 30 stands for?”
