"Right, small town. Well, we grew up in a polygamist cult in a compound in the middle of the desert and lived in a cramped, crumbling house. Then when Hunter helped us all escape to the outside world, there was TV and snacks and nice clothes and art. I just wanted something beautiful in my life. I might have gone a little overboard," I admitted. "I like collecting art and displaying it. Full disclosure, that's the reason I developed my first hotel. I wanted to show off all the art I was able to buy."
Hazel lightly touched my arm. "Of all the ways to go crazy after your ordeal, art is probably more wholesome than alcohol, fast cars, and women."
I smirked at her. "I went crazy on all of those things too."
Now that we cleared Manhattan, it was smooth driving. Hazel clutched the door as I sped up, the road stretching out in front of us. "You're going to get a ticket," she warned.
"I thought you were friends with the police. If we're pulled over, you can put in a good word."
"Doubtful," she said. "Maybe if I were driving."
"You have a driver's license?"
"Of course I have a driver's license."
"But you pulled up on a bike."
"If you don't want me to drive your car, just say so," she said.
"This is my baby." I stroked the dashboard.
"You insulted me."
I pulled over. "Fine. Drive."
"Seriously?"
I nodded, a little apprehensive at the gleeful expression on Hazel's face as I stepped out.
"Oh boy." Hazel rubbed her hands together as she sat in the driver's seat.
"Gimme your sunglasses," she said, plucking them off my face. She put the car into gear and floored the gas. The sports car jerked forward. Now I was the one gripping the door.
"I thought you didn't like to go fast," I said over the roar of the engine. Hazel whooped as we raced down the road to Harrogate. We beat the storm to her café.
She pulled to a stop in front of the Art Café right as the first few raindrops hit the windshield.
"You're going back to work?" I asked. "It's late."
She shrugged.
"I can drop you back to your house," I offered.
"This is fine," Hazel insisted as she popped the trunk and opened the car door.
I jumped out and followed behind her with the portfolio.
"I'll take it up for you," I said, heading to the narrow stairs, taking them two at a time.
"Stop. You don't have to," she insisted, scurrying up after me.
The third floor was a mess—paintings everywhere, piles of canvases. Through an open door, I saw a bed stuffed into what looked like a storage closet.
Hazel huffed up beside me. I peered at her. "You don't live here, do you?"
"Go away."
"Seriously, let me book you a hotel room," I offered.
