Guess I’m about to find out.
I open the door and slide into the seat. The flowery scent I smelled yesterday is gone and all that remains is that new car smell of a fairly recent purchase.
My hand stops short of the glove box. Why am I so damn apprehensive about looking inside? I don’t know this woman. I don’t have any obligation to her. So why am I hesitating? I mean, the registration might show some guy’s name for all I know. Hell, she might have even stolen the car.
I laugh audibly at that last thought. Kenna definitely doesn’t seem the criminal type, which is why I know, if she’s on the run, it isn’t because she kidnapped Amelia. My heart lurches. Because, then again, maybe shedid. I believe it’s still considered kidnapping if one parent takes a child away from another.
Grow some balls and look already.
I open the glove box. Contents don’t spill out like in a lot of other cars. Most often, glove boxes are packed full of things likenapkins, tire pressure gauges, cleaning supplies, hand sanitizer, even guns. Ironically, I’ve only come across a few that actually contain gloves. This one looks like it hasn’t been touched since the purchase of the car. Heck, the window sticker is folded and tucked neatly on top of the manual.
I pull it out, not surprised to see the MSRP of the car is just over a hundred grand. What does surprise me, however, is the registration paperwork that clearly shows the name Kenna Bennett. And it’s dated only last week. Shejustbought the car?
Along with that surprise comes a rush of relief. She is who she says she is, and she didn’t steal the car.
But then more confusion sets it. She bought a car for over a hundred thousand dollars. She bought it last week apparently. Yet her concern wasn’t even for the brand-spanking-new luxury vehicle she’d just purchased at all. She was only worried about not being able to continue on her journey.
Most everyone I know would have been bummed beyond belief after wrecking their shiny new car.
Something is not adding up.A lotof things aren’t adding up.
“Hey,” someone says behind me.
I shove everything back into the glove box and look up at Trevor Criss.
Right. He said he was coming in today to work on his Dodge Charger.
Trevor and I have been friends for a long time. Way back when, he bought the old classic car and started fixing it up as a hobby. When he went off and became a military doctor, it mostly sat here in the warehouse gathering dust. He’d work on it here and there when he was home from serving overseas, but then he almost never got a chance to finish restoring it.
He went through a hell of an ordeal last year, and it cost him his memory. We’re talking every single memory of his entire life, and he’s still not regained it to this day. Miraculously, heretained all of his medical knowledge and was able to continue practicing medicine after recertifying. The true miracle, though, is how his marriage didn’t crumble. It took a while, but he and Ava found their way back to each other and are the proud parents of a bouncing baby girl.
“Day off?” I ask.
He laughs. “I haveallmy days off. I’m still working mostly nights in the ER.”
I don’t bring up the fact that he wouldn’t be if he’d taken that cardiothoracic fellowship in Atlanta because, to be honest, I’m more than a little glad he didn’t go.
Opening a wall cabinet, he pulls out the new dashboard bezel that came in last week, holding it just about as carefully as he holds his daughter. He unboxes it and slides into the driver’s seat. He says something, but my attention is still focused on Kenna’s car.
“Carter!”
I whip around. “Uh… what?”
“I asked if you could hand me that flathead screwdriver to pry out this old bezel.” His forehead lines scrunch together. “You okay? You seem a little off.”
Off. Well, that’s one way to describe me.
Distracted. Concerned. Curious. Protective. Hell… maybe even a little obsessed.
I dig through the pile of tools on the nearby bench and hand him the flathead.
He takes it, but continues staring at me. “Does your peculiar demeanor have anything to do with the petite brunette and her red-headed kid you were seen with at Donovan’s yesterday?”
I scrub a hand across my jaw. “Jesus, seriously? It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”
He shrugs. “You’re asking that of the guy who was the center of town gossip for the better part of last year.”
I pull over a rolling stool and sit. Trevor pivots so he’s sitting sideways in the seat looking directly at me, having turned all attention away from the dashboard. This is one thing I’ve always loved about our friendship. We can, and often do, talk about shit men normally don’t talk to each other about. I guess when you work for hours together over a car, things just come out.
