“Just happened to be driving by this specific stretch of road at this specific time?” I arch an eyebrow. “What a coincidence.”
He grins, that crooked half-smile that does something alarming to my insides. “Isn’t it, though?”
The truth is, these coincidences have been happening with increasing frequency over the past few months, ever since the night at the Rusty Spur when Atlee first pointed out the way he looked at me. Since he was held hostage by Noah, he’s been showing up more and more in places that I might be.
And each time, there’s that same electricity between us, that same flirtation that never quite crosses the line into something more serious.
“So,” he says, crouching down to position the jack under my car, muscles flexing beneath his worn T-shirt. “Where were you headed this fine evening?”
“Dinner at Jesse and Aubree’s,” I tell him, hugging my arms around myself against the evening chill. “Wedding shower planning committee.”
He glances up at me. “For Devlin and Atlee?”
“And both of them,” I confirm. “They’re doing a joint thing, since the weddings are only a month apart.”
“Romantic,” he comments, turning his attention back to the tire. “Two brothers marrying two best friends.”
“Three months ago, I’d have called it crazy,” I admit. “Now it seems like the most natural thing in the world.”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat that might be affirmation, or not. Carson works in silence for a moment, the only sounds the chirping of crickets and the metallic clinking of the lug nuts as he removes them one by one.
“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.
“Think about what?”
“Marriage. Family. The whole white picket fence deal.”
The question catches me off guard. “Sometimes,” I answer cautiously. “When I’m not drowning in briefs and depositions.”
He nods, as if I’ve confirmed something for him. “You’d make a good mom.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, unsure why his words make my heart race. “You barely know me.”
He looks up at me again, his expression serious now. “I know more than you think, Lennon.”
There’s something in his tone, something that makes me wonder what exactly he means. But before I can ask, he’s back to focusing on the tire, the spare now in position as he tightens the lug nuts with practiced efficiency.
“Almost done,” he says, standing and dusting off his hands on his jeans. “You’ll be on your way to that dinner in no?—”
The crack of a gunshot cuts through the evening stillness, followed immediately by the ping of a bullet hitting metal somewhere near us. Carson reacts before I can even process what’s happening, tackling me to the ground behind my car.
“What the—” I start, but he covers my mouth with his hand, his body shielding mine as another shot rings out, then another.
“When I say go, we run for my truck,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “Stay low, zigzag if you can. Ready?”
I nod, too stunned to argue. His hand moves from my mouth to grasp mine.
“Go!”
We sprint toward his truck, bullets kicking up dirt at our feet. Carson practically throws me into the passenger seat before diving across the hood and into the driver’s side. The engine roars to life, and we’re peeling away in a spray of gravel, tiresscreeching as he executes a hairpin turn back toward the main road.
“What the hell was that?” I gasp when I finally find my voice. “Who’s shooting at us?”
Carson’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. “I was hoping you could tell me. Anyone with a reason to want you dead, Lennon?”
The question is so absurd I almost laugh, except for the deadly seriousness in his expression. “I’m a paralegal, not a mob boss,” I say. “Why would anyone want to shoot me?”
“You tell me,” he says, eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror. “Any cases you’re working on that might have pissed someone off?”
