“What did the police say?” Kicking off my wet socks, I make a beeline for the kitchen.
“Nothing.” If his tone didn’t tell me everything I needed to know, the way he’s staring down at his boots would. He didn’t call them.
Coffee pot in hand, I give him my best Texas side-eye. “Someone almost runs you down and pancakes your car, but you just shrug it off like it never happened? I didn’t take you for an idjit.”
His toolbox hits the ancient linoleum with a loud thud. I set the pot down as Nash throws his shoulders back and stalks over to me. “Drop it, Raelynn. It was an accident. I didn’t see the driver or get the license number. I’m fine. My car’s…fine. If you really do think I’m an idiot, then I’ll leave. But you owe me forty-three bucks for the parts.”
I tilt my head up to meet his gaze and almost take a step back. There’s a darkness churning in his eyes that should frighten me. But I can hold my own in any fight, and I sure as shit ain’t backing down in my own damn house.
“Where’d it happen? Which hardware store?” I jam my hands on my hips, daring him not to answer.
“It doesn’t matter because I’m not reporting it.”
He moves to sidestep me, but I grab his left hand. His palm is scraped, and when I skim my fingers down to his wrist, I find a bruise darkening the skin. “So, this is nothing? You’re limping. Did you hit your head too?”
He stiffens when I touch his temple. Two inches back, there’s a knot three fingers wide. “For fuck’s sake. You could have a concussion!”
“I’m done with this conversation.” Nash takes a step back, grabs his toolbox, and backs toward the door. “I should go.”
If I push him any harder, he’ll bolt and I’ll never see him again. Or have a working heater. “Wait. Cold front’s comin’ in next week. Will you stay? I’ll drop it.”
He touches the thick scar over his left brow and sighs. “I don’t like the idea of you living here without heat. So, yeah. I will.”
I scoot around him, fully intending to flee to my bedroom, but pause after a beat. “Help yourself to coffee. I’ll be upstairs if you need…anything.”
Nash
It’s a good three hours before the basement door opens and Raelynn calls down the stairs, “I made lunch. Come up if you’re hungry.”
I shouldn’t. She’ll want to talk. Or worse. She’ll remind me why I can’t file a police report or go to a hospital or call my non-existent insurance company. But it’s fucking freezing down here, and if nothing else, I could do with a fresh cup of coffee and a few minutes of daylight.
I laid awake half the night replaying the hit-and-run. The driver was wearing sunglasses. It was a black car. A sedan, I think. It’s all a blur outside of those sunglasses.
The scent of something rich and spicy leads me into the kitchen.
“Chili,” Raelynn says, handing me a steaming bowl. “Jalapeños and cheese are in the fridge.”
I follow her lead, piling on the sliced peppers and shredded cheddar. “This smells great.”
“My mama’s recipe.” She shrugs, fills both of our coffee cups, and gestures to the living room. “Got the fire goin’. Reckon you need to warm up a bit.”
“These old basements never get much above sixty. I should have brought my coat.” I follow and take a seat next to her on the faded blue sofa.
Sun streams through the windows, and with the logs burning in the hearth—and a bowl of chili in my hands—the room feels so much more inviting than it did the other night. Awkwardness sets in, the silence broken only by the scrape of spoons and the crackle of the flames.
“I overreacted,” I say, desperate to fix whatever I broke between us this morning. “I didn’t call the police because what would I tell them? I didn’t get the guy’s license number or see his face. My car’s fifteen years old. It’s not worth fixing. If I filed a claim, insurance would just total it. I can’t afford to buy a new one.”
She sets her bowl on the side table and turns, bending one leg so she’s facing me. The early afternoon light turns her eyes the deepest shade of blue, and I can’t look away.
“I don’t mean to get all up in your business. You came to my rescue the other night, and I…shit. This,” she gestures between us, “ain’t somethin’ I’m good at.”
“This?”
With a sigh, she starts fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt. “I can talk a blue streak about nothin’, but I’m shit at makin’…friends. Hell, I haven’t told anyone but my doctor about the other night. Sooner or later, West is gonna notice I’m not bikin’ to the dojo, but he won’t say anythin’, and neither will I.”
All those feelings I buried last night come rushing back. I shrug, giving her a small smile. “I move around too much to make friends. Can’t really get to know people when you never stay in one place for more than six months.”
“So why don’t you put down roots? Seattle’s as good a place as any.”
