“He’s discerning.”
“He’s a menace.”
“You started it.”
His eyebrow lifted. “I picked up his crate.”
“Without consent.”
“Didn’t know I needed permission from a hostage situation with fur.”
I fought a smile and lost by half an inch.
Mason saw that too. Something shifted in his face, quick and quiet, there and gone before I could decide what it meant. It made him look younger for a second. Less like a wall. More like a man standing behind one.
I hated curiosity almost as much as I hated needing help.
Regan tapped the counter. “After breakfast, we’ll call the shop in Santa Fe and figure out whether the truck can be patched enough to get you there.”
“I can call a tow.”
“With what money?” Amber asked.
My mouth opened.
Closed.
Rude. Accurate. Still rude.
Savannah slid toast onto a plate and pushed it toward me. “Eat more before you try to argue. You’re underpowered.”
“I’m not underpowered.”
“You tried to flee before sunrise in a dying truck.”
“That was a strategic relocation.”
Mason’s mouth curved. “Running.”
I pointed at him. “Repairman commentary is not needed.”
“Mechanic,” he corrected.
“Temporary mechanic.”
His gaze held mine. “We’ll see.”
The words hit wrong. Or maybe right. Either way, heat moved through me again, annoying and specific, and I took a large bite of toast to keep from answering.
Regan watched the two of us with open interest.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
Amber almost spit coffee.
