Page 10 of Vicious Temptation

“What difference would it make?”

He clicks his tongue. “Well, I gave you mine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

His eyes crease with amusement. “Are you always like this, or is it because you think I’m about to veer off and drag you into the woods?”

My fingers slip into my jacket pocket before I even realize what I’m doing. They find Papá’s signet ring, and I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, tracing the grooves carved into the metal.

Thiago’s attention drops briefly to my hand before returning to the road.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m not...That’s not what I meant.”

“You were right back there,” I cut in. “I am having a rough night. And in case you couldn’t tell, I’m not the kind of woman who gets into trucks with strangers.” I turn toward him. “I pulled a gun on you, Thiago. I don’t carry it for show.”

“Understood.”

The conversation dies there, but my brain refuses to follow. I think about AJ leaving tomorrow, my GT-R sitting on the shoulder, and whether I remembered to lock my toolbox before Thiago tossed it into the back seat.

My thumb continues over the grooves in the ring until I can focus on one thought at a time again.

When the gas station comes into view a few minutes later, a small part of me almost feels bad for being so cold to someone who stopped to help.

Almost, but not enough to regret it.

I don’t owe him a damn thing for something he chose to do. I don’t owe him a smile, my trust, or even common courtesy before I’ve decided he’s earned it.

We pull into the dimly lit lot where two cars idle at the pumps while another sits a few spaces away. Thiago leaves the engine running and taps his thumbs against the steering wheel, like there’s something he wants to say.

I decide to save him the trouble.

“Thank you for stopping and driving me out here...and for not dragging me into the woods.”

“I was already soaked down to my socks, and my ego’s a little bruised. Figured I shouldn’t add a bullet wound to tonight’s tally.”

Before Thiago can catch me smiling, I push open the door.

“Remi,” I say as I step out into the rain. “My name is Remi.”

He looks up, but I close the door before he can respond and head toward the mart without looking back.

A few years ago, I probably would’ve asked for his number. These days, getting into his truck was already further than I would have usually let him get.

“What can I help you with, sweetheart?”

The clerk looks to be in his seventies, too old to be working the night shift at a run-down gas station. His kind brown eyes remind me of Abuelo Antonio, so I let the endearment slide.

“Do you happen to have a phone I can use?”

“Of course⁠—”

“You can use mine.”

A man in a faded blue hoodie appears from one of the aisles with a bag of chips in one hand and a forty-ounce in the other. He flashes me a grin as he approaches, ignoring every reasonable boundary of personal space. Stale cigarettes and cheap liquor reach me before he does.

“I’ve got something for you in my front pocket, pretty girl.” His words slur together. “Better yet, come home with me. I’ll get you out of those wet clothes.”

I give him a moment to reconsider whatever the fuck he thinks he’s doing.