“Define scared?” Basher counters, and I huff under my breath.
“You say you’re in love with this woman and you’re afraid to ask her out.”
“I’m notafraid. I just want to make sure she’ll say yes. It’s more like intimidation than fear.”
I get it—Mabel Crow is scary. She manages the bar like it’s a class of rowdy schoolchildren, and she doesn’t need bouncers to throw out even the most seasoned, and drunk fishermen.
Those dudes battle the waves and sharks on a daily basis. Full respect there.
Mabel might have more moves than a John Cena film, but I can see what the attraction is for Basher. I saw her break up a fight using only a dishrag, and it washot. Sexy. I may be scared of Mabel as well, but I also can admit the woman looks good. All that dark hair, dark eyes that don’t take crap from anyone, curves curving everywhere, and … a possibly dark heart when it comes to Basher.
I think Basher should offer to arm wrestle her for a date. She might respect that.
The car slides a bit on the slick road as we turn back into town. “Did you do that on purpose?” Basher asks. “Like the drift in Fast and Furious.”
As part of Basher’s learn-about-cars regime, he’s taken to rewatching the Fast and Furious franchise.
I drive faster than the speed limit suggests, but I have full control of the vehicle. I’ve only once not had full control of a vehicle, and I don’t want a repeat of that day. “Sure,” I tell him, not wanting to admit the streets in town are icier than when we left.
My toes in my leather Golden Goose shoes suggest it’s gotten colder. If that’s possible. The entire town is frigid, and I did not bring warm enough clothes.
So why do I stay?
Good question.
The car races along the deserted streets with a nice throaty rumble. I’ll give Fenella credit because it’s a fun drive. My sister does know her cars, although I’m not about to tell her so. I really wish I could open it up to see what it can do. But Battle Harbour, as quiet and empty as it seems, is no racetrack. “This car needs to be driven,” I say as I circle the downtown, keeping a few streets back to avoid Laandia’s finest. “It’s like a dog that needs to run.”
“Your sister was telling me Silas found a cat that they want to adopt,” Basher says. “They want to call it Oscar to go with their Ernie cat. Do these people have a Sesame Street fetish or something?”
“Do theyeven watch Sesame Street? Isn’t that an American thing?”
“Sesame Street is a world-wide thing,” he argues. “You haven’t said much about your sister getting married.”
“Why would I?” My sister is engaged to be married. I’ve acknowledged this. Congratulated her and bought her the stupid engagement present that she demanded I buy. I’ve said nice things to Silas, which is not easy for me. Not that it’s anything about Silas—he’s a great guy. It’s just that saying nice things isn’t in my MO. Compliments are not my love language.
I have no love language.
Basher seems to think its time for therapy as we drive through the quiet streets. “It’s just that your twin is settling down, getting married, and you—”
“Are not.”
“Yeah. How do you… feel… about that?”
I turn to glance at him. “Are you asking me about my feelings?”
“What’s wrong with that?” he demands. “We’re friends. Friends… talk.”
“You’re definitely not getting Mabel if you ask her about her feelings.”
“Why not? Hettie says—Ashton!”
I see her at the same time as Basher does. The woman appears, her bright red puffer acting like a stop sign, in the middle of the street in the very worst spot in town.
I jam on the brakes, but we hit a patch of ice and skid.
And skid.
Her eyes are wide and full of horror as the car slides closer. Too close.
