“It’s his favorite snack, I thought it was fitting.”
I stared at him some more. I genuinely couldn’t tell if he was messing with me or not. For the first time in recent memory — hell, for the first time maybeever— I had the most bizarre urge to grab his hand and trigger a vision, if only to get a little insight into the inner workings of his brain. (Obviously, it was an urge I suppressed.)
“Of course, most people around here assume it’s short for the baseball team,” the cop said, scoffing lightly. “As if I’d ever root for the Red Sox. My cousin is an assistant coach for the Orioles. I’d be excommunicated from the family, using Boston as a namesake.”
Somehow, our conversation had gone remarkably off course. I desperately needed to bring our focus back to the matter at hand (i.e. my car) and then get the heck out of this odd little town, away from its even odder inhabitants. “Look, Highheeler?—”
“Hightower.”
“Right. Whatever.” I took a calming breath. “I think it’s great you rescued a Newfie puppy named Socks?—”
“Funny, you can get my dog’s name right but not mine.”
I pointedly ignored his muttered remark and continued, “I just really don’t know why you felt the need to tell me, of all people, about it.”
“You asked,” he claimed. (Again!)
“I didnot!” I retorted. (Again!)
“You asked what I was doing, didn’t you?” His eyes were all crinkly at the corners. It might’ve been cute if it weren’t so maddening.
“Technically, I guess I did ask. But I certainly didn’t mean?—”
He cut me off. “You asked, I answered. That’s it. End of story.”
“I— You— That—” I wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed, amused, or astounded by his willful misinterpretations. Choosing annoyance, I narrowed my gaze. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”
“Oh?” Those bright blue eyes of his were dancing with humor. “What did you mean?”
“What are you doinghere?” I exploded. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was so worked up — usually, my feathers weren’t so easy to ruffle. But something about this guy was…ruffling. Ruffling in a big way. “Why did you pull over at all if you aren’t planning to ticket me?”
“Do you want me to ticket you?”
I scowled up at him. “Definitely not!”
“Is there a reason you’re yelling at me?”
“I am not yelling!” (Okay, I was very possibly yelling.) “I’m just confused as to what you need from me, Detective.”
“I don’t need anything from you. You’re not in any sort of trouble.”
“Oh.” That was a relief. “Then what are you doing here?”
“Generally, when I see a woman stranded on the side of the road, I like to offer assistance.”
“You just said you were headed home,” I felt the need to point out. “To Socks.”
“And?”
“You’re clocked out for the day. This—” I gestured at the car behind me. “—isn’t your problem.”
“Then you don’t need any help?”
My teeth ground together in frustration at his rather baiting question. “I…”
“Need help,” he finished for me. “Hence, me pulling over.”
“Did you just sayhence?”