Where Tina dressed like a biker babe who’d gone through a wood-chipper, Naomi wore high-end athletic shorts and a matching tank over a toned body that promised more than a handful of nice surprises.
She looked like the kind of woman who’d take one look at me and high-tail it to the safety of the first golf shirt-wearing board member she could find.
Lucky for her, I didn’t do drama. Or high maintenance. I didn’t do doe-eyed princesses in need of saving. I didn’t waste time with women who required more than a good time and a handful of orgasms.
But since I’d already stuck my nose into the situation, called her trash, and yelled at her, the least I could do was bring the situation to a fast conclusion. Then I was heading back to bed.
“No. I’m not fucking kidding you,” I stated.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You don’t have a car,” I pointed out.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I am aware I don’t have a car.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re a stranger in a new town. Your car disappears. And you’re turning down the offer of a ride because…”
“Because you stormed into a cafe and screamed at me! Then you chased me down and you’re still yelling. I get in a car with you and I’m more likely to get chopped into pieces and scattered about in a desert than end up at my destination.”
“No deserts here. Some mountains though.”
Her expression suggested she didn’t find me helpful or amusing.
I exhaled through my teeth. “Look. I’m tired. I got an alert that Tina was causing trouble at the café again, and that’s what I thought I was walking into.”
She took a long hit of coffee while looking up and down the street like she was debating escape.
“Don’t even think about it,” I told her. “You’d spill your coffee.”
When those pretty hazel eyes went wide, I knew I’d hit the mark.
“Fine. But only because this is the best latte I’ve had in my entire life. And is that your idea of an apology? Because just like the way you ask people if something’s wrong, it sucks.”
“It was an explanation. Take it or leave it.” I didn’t waste time doing things that didn’t matter. Like making small talk or apologizing.
A bike roared up the street with Rob Zombie blaring from the speakers despite the fact that it was barely seven a.m. The guy eyed us and revved his engine. Wraith was knocking on seventy years old, but he still managed to nail an astronomical amount of tail with the whole tattooed, silver fox thing he had going on.
Intrigued, Naomi watched him with her mouth open.
Today was not the day Little Miss Daisies in Her Hair would take a walk on the wild side.
I gave Wraith the fuck off nod, snatched Naomi’s precious coffee out of her hand, and headed down the sidewalk.
“Hey!”
She gave chase like I’d known she would. I could have taken her by the hand, but I wasn’t exactly a fan of the reaction I’d had when I touched her. It felt complicated. “Should have stayed in fucking bed,” I muttered.
“What is wrong with you?” Naomi demanded, jogging to catch up. She reached for her cup, but I held it just out of reach and kept walking.
“If you don’t want to end up hog-tied over the back of Wraith’s bike, then I suggest you get in my truck.”
The disheveled flower child muttered some uncomplimentary sounding things about my personality and anatomy.
“Look. If you can stop bein’ a pain in my ass for five whole minutes, I’ll take you to the station. You can get your damn car, and then you can get out of my life.”
“Has anyone ever told you you have the personality of a pissed-off porcupine?”
I ignored her and kept walking.
“How do I know you aren’t going to try to hog-tie me yourself?” she demanded.
I came to a stop and gave her a lazy once-over. “Baby, you’re not my type.”
She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t pop out and fall to the sidewalk. “Excuse me while I go cry myself a river.”
I stepped off the curb and opened the passenger door of my pickup. “Get in.”
“Your chivalry sucks,” she complained.
“Chivalry?”
“It means—”
“Jesus. I know what it means.”
And I knew what it meant that she’d use it in conversation. She had fucking flowers in her hair. The woman was a romantic. Another strike against her in my book. Romantics were the hardest women to shake loose. The sticky ones. The ones who pretended they could handle the whole “no strings” deal. Meanwhile, they plotted to become “the one,” trying to con men into meeting their parents and secretly looking at wedding dresses.