“I’m not putting it on. You’re insane.”
“Don’t make me sedate you.”
Even though he looks somewhat amused, I’m one hundred percent certain he’s not joking.
I glance down at the beanie in my hand. The one I’m supposed to wear pulled down over my eyes so I can’t see the entrance to the bat cave. I thought I was being pushed to my limit when I had to agree that he’ll come back for my Bronco tomorrow, but this is some bullshit.
“What if we pull up next to a cop? He’s going to think I’m being abducted. How are you going to explain that?”
Instead of duct-taping my mouth shut and zip-tying my hands and feet, which I assume would have been standard operating procedure for a hit man—if he doesn’t shoot you first—Saxon has been strangely patient.
Saxon. I still don’t think the name fits him as he stares at me from the other side of the bench seat of his perfectly restored International Harvester Scout.
The waves of envy beating against the walls of my soul over his four-wheel drive may have helped my compliance when he opened the passenger door for me to climb in. But even the incredible reupholstered black-and-white bench seat that makes me yearn for the extra cash to restore my Bronco doesn’t make me compliant enough to put this beanie on without argument.
He presses a button on the dash and the clear windows turn black. “Problem solved.”
“Are you kidding me?” My mouth drops open, and I swivel around to look in the backseat. Every piece of glass is now tinted like a limo. “Where are the rockets mounted?”
I give him hardcore side-eye and catch a restrained chuckle from his side of the vehicle.
“I’m not Batman. There aren’t any rockets. My job calls for a little more subtlety.”
No way this thing is unarmed. “Machine guns? Bullet-resistant glass? Is that why you didn’t let me open the door, the weight of the armor?”
“Put. It. On.”
His patience is waning, and even though I should be scared of him, I’m not. My chin juts out stubbornly.
“This is going to end in you conscious or unconscious, Temperance. You choose.”
I glare. “You’re a dick.”
“You like my dick,” he shoots back.
I hate that he’s one hundred percent correct about that, so I lie.
“Did.Past tense. That was before I knew it was connected to a hit man.” When my statement drains any humor from his expression, part of me wishes I could take it back.
“Put it on.”
“Fine.”
I pull the beanie over my head and cover my eyes. I don’t know what kind of fabric this hat is made out of, probably the same stuff as the bat suit, but it definitely blocks all light—not to mention it smells incredible. Like him.
A spicy, clean masculine scent overwhelms me as he shifts the SUV in drive and pulls out onto the street. For a while, I try to keep track of the turns, but after about five minutes, it becomes impossible.
“Tell me about the distillery,” he says. “What’s coming up? More special events that are going to bring in big crowds?”
“We’re running a speed-dating event this week. Professional singles are getting together in the restaurant to mix and mingle. No other events planned beyond our regular tours until next weekend, thank the Lord, or else I’d lose my mind.”
“Is that your main job? Special events?”
“Technically, I’m the COO.”
“Fancy title. What does it really mean?”
I roll my eyes, but he can’t see them under the beanie. “That I do whatever Keira tells me to, including events. Although, we’re hopefully hiring someone specifically to handle those, because it’s getting to be a little overwhelming to keep up.”