She does not.
“What are you doing here?”
She looks over at me and hacks again. Wide, wary blue eyes connect with mine.
I tap the private security logo on my polo. “You can’t park here. Private property.”
She coughs once more, shakes her head, and then looks down.
Outside the car to where the whole goddamn chicken minus half a breast that she’s been gnawing on has flopped over onto its back, legs spread, wings looking a little worse for the adventure.
“I can’t eat that now, can I?” The statement is a whole mood. Melancholy and desperation with a touch ofthree-second rule.
And I feel a familiar punch to the gut.
Caden would’ve laughed his ass off about this.
If I could tell my brother that I found a woman going full predator on an entire rotisserie chicken in the loading zone at one of my shifts, he would’ve congratulated me on meeting my soulmate and asked when the wedding was.
I would’ve flipped him off.
He would’ve told me to bring popcorn the next time I wanted to talk about my future wife.
Fuck, I miss my brother.
He was funny as hell.
“Your digestive system, your choice, but you can’t eat it here,” I reply.
She eyes me.
I eye her right back.
There’s a ring of grease around her plump lips and a bit of chicken on her chin that wobbles as she mutters something to herself.
The ghost in my head is right.
There could be something here.
She’s fucking adorable.
And I’m leaving the country in five days and not coming back. Ever.
“Ma’am, this is a private parking lot?—”
“You’re security?” she interrupts.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“ID, please.”
The authority in her voice doesn’t match the way she’s using the edge of her T-shirt to wipe a streak of grease off of the steering wheel, and it momentarily catches me off guard as I peek beneath her T-shirt.
Blue.
She’s either an alien with a blue stomach, or she’s wearing an undershirt.
Alien with a blue stomach?
