“Moving where?”
There’s a pause before Kenna speaks again. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
Alarms go off in my head and I’m reminded of what she said earlier.
‘We were leaving.’
‘All our stuff is in the car.’
Is she running from something? Or someone? My body stiffens and all my protective instincts kick in. Is she in danger? Is Amelia?
Not your problem, a voice in my mind says. But I ignore it. Because for some inexplicable reason, the moment Kenna and her daughter got into the truck, itbecamemy problem.
~ ~ ~
When I come back in from the warehouse, Amelia is asleep, her head in Kenna’s lap. There’s only one other person in the lounge area waiting on their vehicle service to be complete. Most people wisely chose to stay home on this cold, wintery day. I nod to Mr. Kensington, who’s waiting on a battery replacement, and assure him his car will be ready shortly, then I pull over a chair and sit across from Kenna.
She sets down the magazine she was reading. Luckily, my sister insists on keeping more than just car and mechanic magazines in the waiting area. There are ones on parenting and gardening, a few National Geographics, several on the comings and goings of celebrities, and even some about pets. Kenna was readingUs Weekly.
She sighs. “You’re about to ask me if I want the good news or the bad news first, aren’t you?”
I laugh quietly so I don’t wake her daughter. “Guess I don’t have much of a poker face, huh?”
Her stare rakes over my hair, my eyes, my lips. And, Jesus, I swear my heart just flipped over.
“No. Definitely not a poker face.”
Shit. How far beyond news about her car does that go? Can she tell I was immediately drawn to her in a way I haven’t experienced in well over a decade? Hell, I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced this kind of instant attraction—or whatever it is.
Then again, maybe it’s not attraction. Maybe it’s simply a need to make sure she’s safe. Not just from the car accident, but from whatever she was leaving behind when it happened.
But that doesn’t make sense either. This isn’t a new situation for me. I can’t even count how many times I’ve given rides to moms and their kids after a wreck or breakdown. And there are plenty of women in Calloway Creek who’ve needed help—major help—at one time or another. Take Maddie Calloway for instance. She was a young single mom who survived a fire and was permanently scarred. Or Ava Criss, who thought she’d lost her husband, who also happens to be my best friend, last year. Or Violet Morrow, the owner of the bakery on McQuaid Circle whose boyfriend cheated on her when she was pregnant, leaving her to raise the baby alone after he skipped town. How come I didn’t swoop in and take care of them like I feel the need to do with Kenna?
But I also get the feeling she doesn’t particularly want, or even need, my help. She’s nice. Polite. Grateful. But also cautious and wary. A good combination of qualities for a single woman if you ask me.
“Good news first,” she says, breaking into my introspection. “Always good news first. It softens the blow for what comes next.”
“I like your optimism.” I fight the urge to put a reassuring hand on her arm. “Okay, well the good news is your car isn’t totaled. In fact, it isn’t even as bad as I originally thought. The body damage will take about a day and a half. The engine damage is minor. You picked a great car.”
She nods. “Keeping Amelia safe is my top priority.”
Her words give me pause. Is she referring to more than just the car?
She bites her lower lip and says, “But…” When I don’t immediately say anything, she adds, “There’s always abutafter the good news part. Just give it to me, Carter.”
When she speaks my name, a strange energy courses through me.Damn. How can my name—a word I’ve heard a million times in my life—seem different just becauseshe’ssaying it?
“Okay, so, along with the bumper, the front passenger-side quarter panel—which is the body section between the passenger door and the front wheel well—needs to be replaced. And while the work itself will only take a day, two tops, the parts needed to replace it will take a week to ten days to arrive.”
Her jaw goes slack. “A week?”
“At the very least. I even called my distributor personally to see about expediting it. But with the exclusivity of your high-end vehicle, it’s just not possible.”
She looks embarrassed that I called her out on her expensive ride. Her having it is almost humorous. Or maybe outof place. She doesn’t strike me as the type to drive such a car. Her clothes are anything but designer. Her purse bears no fancy logo or label. Nor does her or Amelia’s coat.
Shit. Is the car even hers? I didn’t bother looking at the registration. Maybe she’s married to some billionaire banker in the city—a man who hurts her, forcing her to go on the run.
I study her face. No bruises. No makeup either. But it’s flawless. Not a single wrinkle, freckle, or laugh line. Still, the absence of visual trauma doesn’t mean she’s not in trouble. I know all too well there are other kinds of abuse.
