My hands curl into fists. “And you can close the diner now.”
He holds up his palms in surrender. “Sí, hombre. I cando that.”
Lennon looks behind me then darts around the counter to the elderly couple in the booth. The man is trying to comfort his wife with soft words.
“Are you okay?” Lennon asks them.
My girl. Such a big heart.
I walk over to stand behind her and make eye contact with the old man with liver spots and hearing aids. A smile ghosts my lips. His body may be aged, but I can see the fire in his eyes as he clutches his wife’s hand in his, his phone in the other. He’s seconds away from calling the cops.
“Mr.?” I ask, arching a brow.
“Brighton. Bill Brighton.”
“Bill.” I glance meaningfully at his phone. “It would be best if we didn’t get the police involved. I can guarantee you this man will face consequences for his stupidity tonight.”
Lennon stiffens in front of me. I have to hold myself back from wrapping an arm around her to comfort her.
Bill’s bushy gray brows rise on his forehead. Then he gives me a once over and nods in understanding. “I’ll be getting my wife home then.”
We move aside so he can help his wife from the booth. As Bill passes me, he looks up, locking eyes with me. “About time somebody takes care of her for a change.” He winks and pats my forearm with an arthritic hand.
An amused grunt escapes my throat.
***
I didn’t realize when I told Lennon I’d drive her home that her car was such a tin-can piece of shit. I have the seat pushed all the way back and my knees are still wedged under the steering wheel. The oil light is on, and the brakes are spongey.
I have to stop myself from driving to the Mercedes dealership we own—for money laundering purposes—and force them to open so I can buy her a car. If I know my little firecracker, she won’t accept it anyway. The only gift she’s ever accepted from me is the snow globe.
I pull up to a red light and glance over. She’s staring out the window, chewing on a bitten-to-the-quick thumbnail. The only words she’s uttered so far are to tell me she lives in the same apartment. When I said I already knew that, she glanced at me sharply, questions swimming in her narrowed eyes.
I have questions, too. So many questions. But this isn’t the right time for my questions or my anger.
As I try to adjust the rearview mirror, it falls off and bounces off the gear shift.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. The duct tape that was apparently holding it on is dangling from the window.
The light turns green, and I hand her the useless mirror. “Do you prefer black or white?”
Without looking at me or missing a beat she says, “You’re not buying me a new car, Sandro.”
A deep chuckle escapes my chest. I forget how well she knows me.
I park her poor excuse for transportation in the allotted space and struggle to unfold myself and stand. Rubbing my lower back, I slam the door. It bounces back open.
“You have to lift up the handle and bump it with your hip,” she says over the hood.
I stare at her and then down at the car. Maybe I could just set it on fire. Then she’d have to accept a new car. I rub the stubble on my jaw.
“Sandro,” she says sharply. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”
I smirk as I bump the door shut as she instructed.
As we begin the walk through the parking lot to her second-floor apartment in the balmy night air, I glance down at her. I’m curious. “What do you think I was thinking?”
She sighs. “Probably something like stealing my car and taking it to the junkyard so I’d have to accept a new car.”
