The old nickname had popped out naturally, without thought. I started calling her that—later shortened to Web—when we were kidsbecause of her last name and the way we met. “I can’t make any promises. Put the car in neutral.”
Not happy about her predicament, she moves the cat back to the pillow and begrudgingly shifts the gear, like she’s doing me the favor.
Lot’s a real piece of work. So why the hell am I still so damned drawn to her?
Chapter Four
Lot
“Queen recognizes queen.”
Dice pushes the car with ease, and I steer it to the curb, hating that I had to take his help. Once it’s in park, I sit with both hands on the wheel, fingers tapping, trying to breathe past the frustration boiling hot in my chest. I’d set an alarm. I’d worn a hair tie on my wrist to remind me to get gas. But my phone died, and my hair was getting on my nerves, so I used the tie for that. A lot of good either did me.
“It’s lucky he came by,” I mutter to the cat. “But we’re going for polite, not friendly. Got it?”
“Meow.”
“Did you say something?” he asks, putting his face up to the slightly open window.
And what a face it is. Dice isn’t just fine—he’s chocolate-truffle fine. Rich-brown skin and dark-brown eyes. Tinyspace between his two front teeth that only adds to his appeal. Short fade and trimmed beard—that’s new. He used to wear a soul patch beneath his bottom lip, but the full beard suits him. Too well. And where did all those muscles come from?
“Lot?”
“What?”
“Did you say something?”
“I just said thanks. Here’s my credit card for the gas.” I shove it through the narrow crack.
“It’s all good,” he says, not taking it. “We’re a block from my place. We can grab my car and a gas can.”
We? “I’ll just wait here.”
“That makes no sense. First, it’s cold, and second, you can charge your phone on the drive to the station.”
Good points, but?—
“Lot, I’m not leaving you here, so we’re just wasting time.”
“Fine.” I exhale through my nose, pick up the cat, tucking her beneath my arm, and lock up.
We walk in silence for a few beats before he says, “I can hold her.”
“It’s okay.”
“I don’t mind.” He reaches toward her, and she lets out a guttural hiss.
“Daaamn!” Dice jerks his hand back. “That was personal.”
Good girl. I smile to myself.
“She’s you in feline form,” he says, smirking. “Only tamer.”
I pretend to ignore him. And the way his familiar teasing tugs low in my stomach.
“This is me,” he announces as we come upon a square-cut house with blue-gray siding and a cedar door. Not flashy. Not loud. Just solid in that settled, mature way.
The porch light fixture is brass and the mat reads: Welcome to the Crib. I pause there, waiting for him to unlock the door, trying notto show how curious I am about his new place. Wondering what all I’ve missed.
