And it wasannoying.
Not refreshing.
(At least, that was what I told myself.)
“Detective Hightower,” I forced myself to say, smiling through clenched teeth. “You may be an open book, but I don’t like to read.”
This was a blatant lie. I loved to read. I was the little kid who rode her bike to the library twice a week, filling her backpack up with hardcovers each visit because she didn’t have any friends that weren’t fictional growing up. But he didn’t need to know that rather embarrassing factoid about me. In fact, he didn’t need to know any factoids about me.
We weren’t going to be friends.
I didn’tdofriends.
The sad truth was, not all that much had changed in the companionship department since my youth. Fictional friends were still the only kind I was willing to risk.
Cade —Detective Hightower— folded his arms over his chest and resumed staring at me. “So that’s a no on tacos, then?”
“It’s a no on tacos, Detective.”
“Cade.”
“Detective,” I countered firmly.
His eyes crinkled. “Better than Hero-Hair, I suppose.”
“I could think up a worse nickname. Trust me.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” He paused. “And it’s okay if you can’t do dinner tonight. We’ll raincheck.”
“No, we won’t. Are you hard of hearing? I’m not going to be in town long. I wouldn’t be in town at all if I hadn’t broken down against my will. And once my car is back in action, I’m out of here.”
At that, Cade —De. Tec. Tive. High. Tower.— stepped alarmingly close to me again. His bright blue eyes locked on mine, and there was no escaping them. “Come on, Goldie. I’ll give you a ride to The Sea Witch. Get you settled in.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It is.”
“You said it’s just down the block!”
“I also said I’d give you a ride.”
“You’ve already taken care of my car. There’s no need for more meddling.”
“If you think I’m leaving you here in the dark with no phone, no idea where you’re going, and nothing but your own pigheadedness to keep you company… you have vastly underestimated my meddling capabilities.”
I scowled at him — my best one, the one I reserved for sandy-footed frat bros who’d had one too many spiked seltzers on a Saturday afternoon and were seconds away from puking on my freshly cleaned bar-top.
“Scowl all you like,” he said amiably. “But do it while you pop the trunk, will you?”
When I didn’t move fast enough for his liking, he turned on a heel and stalked over — with that damn authoritative swagger! — to my driver’s side door. In a flash, he’d retrieved my keys from the ignition and hit the button to unlatch the trunk.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, trailing in his wake as he made his way to the back of the vehicle. “Did you just pocket my car keys?!”
“I’ll pass them along to the mechanics.”
“You can’t just take—” My eyes widened as I watched him reach into the depths of my trunk. “Hey! That’s my stuff!”
My hisses fell on deaf ears as he slung the strap of my leather backpack over his shoulder, swiped my full-to-bursting duffle bag with a one-handed grip, turned his back to me, and ambled toward his SUV like he had all the time in the world.