I’m about ready to march over there and demand she explain when our gazes lock. The power behind her eyes—or maybe that’s my dick remembering the quick kiss on the cheek she gave me the other night—makes me forget everything I was about to say.
A flash of green draws my attention. “Emi, your…err…parsley?…is about to fall off the belt.”
Arching a brow, she snags the leafy bunch right before it loses its precarious balance and tumbles to the floor. “You mean the kale?”
“Kale?” Chuckling, I shake my head. “Ain’t never heard of the stuff.”
“Sorry, Kyle. I’m at the store.” She gives me a shrug and mouths,“Work thing,” as she pulls a small bag of fruit from her basket.
She obviously didn’t expect to see me here, and since she’s still on the phone, I tip my Stetson to her. “Enjoy your night, Emi. I still hope you call me one of these days.”
With her free hand, she traces an X over her heart with a smile. It’s enough. For now.
“Gotta run, Kyle. But come see me tomorrow when you get in. We’ll talk some more. And take advantage of the security Nelson offered, okay?” Ending the call, she meets the clerk’s gave. “I’m sorry. Work emergency. Can I also get a book of stamps?”
“Sure, hon.”
With one last glance at her small assortment of fruits and vegetables—along with a bag of the same cheddar cheese popcorn I favor—I head for my truck. I just made a fool of myself in front of a woman I’d love to take out on a date. How the hell was I supposed to know that was kale? Vegetables and I don’t have much to say to one another.
I stow my groceries in the lockbox spanning the truck bed and run a hand through my hair. There’s a reason I don’t get out much—or try to talk to women. And as much as I hope to hear from Emi soon, it’s probably better if she loses my number permanently. She deserves someone who isn’t so broken he can’t even cook her a proper meal.
Something flickers in the corner of my right eye. Movement. Odd. I lost half the vision in that eye after the blast. Probably just a phantom. A misfire from my optic nerve. The doc said those were possible—likely even. But when it happens again, I turn.
A man in a black sweatshirt and dark Wranglers rises from the far side of Emi’s powder-blue Mustang. His black ball cap is pulled low over his eyes. Something about the way he moves doesn’t sit right with me, and I take two steps toward the car before he sprints away and disappears behind the back of the grocery store.
You spend long enough on the job, you start to trust your instincts as much or more than your eyes and ears, and my gut says that asshole was up to no good.
I can’t let Emi drive away without checkin’ out the whole damn car. And hearin’ about the threats she mentioned.
Emi’s heels click along the asphalt. A single bag is balanced on her hip. Her keys are already in her hand, held like a weapon. Not a very effective one. Most women—hell, even a lot of guys—don’t have enough strength behind their punches to do serious damage with only a car key. But it’s better than nothin’.
She clicks the key fob, and the car’s lights flicker. But they’re too dim. Something’s very wrong.
“Emi?” I call as I take off at a run. “Wait.”
A second later, the Mustang explodes with a whoosh of flames and enough force to drive us to the ground and slam Emi’s head into the pavement.
My ears are ringing like someone locked me in a bell tower, but everything else around me is muffled as fuck. Dragging my hand over my eyes, I wipe away a thick smear of blood. Emi is unnaturally still a few feet away. Crimson stains her cheek, and her whole face looks like she came down with a bad case of windburn. Or got dragged behind an angry bull.
I roll onto my side, a few deep breaths tamping down the dizziness.
Threats. She was being threatened. Someone named Nelson was offering security. Fuck me.
This wasn’t an accident. That skinny sombitch in the black ball cap had something—or everything—to do with it. Flames crackle inside the wreckage, and a hubcap rattles at the far end of the parking lot as it rolls and finally hits a light pole.
“Emi?” Crawling as quickly as my aching leg allows, I make it to her side and check for a pulse. Thank God. She’s alive. “Open your eyes, sweetheart.” Her brows pinch together, and she tries to raise her head, but I press down on her shoulders. “Stay still.”
“I…I can’t…hear…what…?”
Leaning closer, I force strength into my tone. “Stay. Still. Someone blew up your car. Can you tell me what hurts?”
“My…car? Jasper?”
She’s too confused to answer me properly, so I start a standard field assessment. The young clerk who rang up my groceries races out of the store and skids to a stop when she sees the burning car. “Oh my God. I’ll call 911.”
“Get an ambulance too!” I shout. “But don’t say a word about who she is. You understand?”
“Huh?” The clerk clearly doesn’t watch TV news. Too young. Probably sticks to the internet.
