11. A Roomy Backseat
11
A Roomy Backseat
Rose
M y brain feels like it’s a murky mixture of split pea soup. I’m jet lagged from the whirlwind trip to California. I put in a full morning of work at Mood Reader. Now I have to go “interview” Anton. How am I supposed to do that? I have no idea.
The trip to California turned out to be mostly pointless. It was nice to see Noli and Collin let loose and have a good time, I guess, but as far as Anton and his safety, nothing remarkable happened…crazed fan aside. If a crazed fan is the worst of his problems, then that’s a pretty good day.
I touched base with my dad and the rest of the team late last night. Now my pea-soup mush brain is swimming with intel and the information we’ve compiled about the threat against Anton. Our sources are pointing to an insider behind the threats. We haven’t been able to ascertain whether that means someone from the River Foxes or someone from Penwick. Queen Della is demanding that we stick to Anton like gum to a shoe.
There’s a tiny timer that I can practically see up in the corner of my vision—like the ticker on old-school camcorder recordings. It’s running a countdown, and there’s an end date.
Because that’s one thing our intelligence has confirmed: this attempt on Anton’s life will happen before Christmas. That means I’ve got to be on my A-game for the next month. Head on a swivel. Heart under lock and key.
I suppose going to California was good for one thing. It got Anton to agree to letting me interview him, which is my ticket to accessing him while he’s at work .
Then again, I’m not sure if I like the determined glint Anton got in his eye toward the end of our dance. Check that. I’m entirely sure I didn’t like it. It was like something shifted for him. He went from hating my guts and despising my presence—who can forget the mosquito metaphor, for crying out loud—to holding me in his arms as if I was a rare bird he felt fortunate to stumble upon for only the second time in his illustrious bird-watching career.
Just go with the new analogy.
I tried to head him off, telling him I wouldn’t date him again, but I don’t know what good it did. Anton is ridiculously competitive when he sets his mind to something. I shiver thinking about him setting his mind on me.
We didn’t make any definitive plans to connect back here in Green Bay before he kissed my hand and strode away from me on the dance floor.
And no, I am not thinking about that kiss. I refuse to acknowledge that the two knuckles he hit with his lips have been tingling on and off ever since. Like he seared them permanently, burning the skin right off the bone and leaving my pulse exposed to the air.
I flex my fingers to rid myself of the ridiculous thought. I fumble for my phone, pulling up the text message I received last night. He still had my number, which is another thing I’m choosing not to think about. But his message is the definition of cryptic.
Anton
Meet me at the Bay at 1:00pm. Dock 117.
What the heck am I supposed to make of that?
I’m fifty percent annoyed by the lack of details he’s given me about what to expect, and fifty percent scared he’s sending me to some abandoned dock and plans to off me. Not really. Anton would never. Maybe I’ve been reading too many murder mysteries, though, because his message definitely has that vibe .
I follow the directions from my phone and pull up to Dock 117 at twelve-thirty. Fortunately, it’s not deserted or abandoned. There’s a whole slew of people milling about and a giant sign broadcasting the annual Polar Plunge, an event held to raise money for athletes with disabilities.
I step out of my car and flip up the fur-lined hood on my parka, zipping the collar all the way up. It’s a balmy twenty degrees today, but I’m still thanking my lucky stars I’m not jumping into the frozen Bay of Green Bay. I wonder if Anton is. I wouldn’t put it past him, to go all in—literally—rather than to show up at the event for name recognition and moral support.
I stride over to the check-in table, and a woman in giant earmuffs and a Polar Plunge t-sheet worn over her winter coat beams at me. Her sticker nametag reads Lisa.
“Hi there, sweetie. Thanks for coming out. Can I have the name?” Lisa pauses with her finger hovering over her tablet, waiting to check me in.
“Oh no. I’m not—”
“She’s here with me, Ms. Lisa.” Anton’s voice blankets me from behind, and I’m at once ten degrees warmer. I whip my head around to find him striding over from where a group was congregating near the entrance walkway to the Bay.
He makes it to my side, and I offer him a tentative smile, grateful that he saved me from having to explain why I wasn’t jumping. “That’s right.” I turn to Lisa. “Here to document the day. This is such a great event.”
“Lisa has been in charge here for…how many years now, Lis?” Anton asks her.
“This is my tenth.” Lisa beams back at him. “We’re so thankful for all your support, Mr. Bates. Your Majesty.”
Anton hits her with a frown, but it’s as fake as margarine. “None of this Your Majesty business. I’m a plunger like everyone else.”
“You’re jumping in there?” I eye the Bay. There are chunks of ice floating around in the gray-blue water. I shiver .
“Sure am. You are too.” He turns to Lisa. “This is Rose Kasper. She’s the late addition I called you about.”
What the what now?
I hold up my hands and reach one over to still Lisa’s finger as it tap, tap, taps away on her tablet. “There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, Lisa. Can you give us a minute?”
I grab Anton’s arm and yank him off to the side of the table. “You signed me up for the Polar Plunge?!”
Anton’s voice doing funny things to me aside, my blood has already turned to ice standing out here for the past five minutes. I hate being cold. Absolutely, positively hate it. Anton knows that. Getting into the frozen bay will be the end of me. I won’t recover for the rest of the winter. I’ll become a permanent ice block.
“I knew you’d be game.” Anton crosses his arms. “You said as much in California.”
“I did not,” I hiss.
“You said you’d roll with what I had to do. This is what I’m doing today. What better way to get the full picture of my life for your article than to be by my side as I take the plunge?”
“I can think of about a dozen other ways, starting with standing on the dock and watching you jump.” I toss my hands in the air. “I can’t do this.”
“But you’re going to, aren’t you?” Anton’s smiling at me. “Because the Rose I know doesn’t back down from a challenge. The Rose I know wouldn’t leave a good cause hanging. And the Rose I know wants to write this article, and I refuse to answer your questions unless I see you leap off the edge of the dock here today.”
I huff out a breath, and the air is visible in front of me. Because it’s frigging freezing out here. Colder than freezing.
“This is insane.” I stomp my foot like a toddler. “Why didn’t you tell me you had this planned?”
“Would you have come? ”
“I—” I cut myself off because…fair point. But still. “I could have at least come prepared. I don’t want to jump in in my jeans.”
“Figured you might say that. Come with me.”
Anton grabs my hand, and I’m so shocked by the feel of his giant, bear-paw palm engulfing mine that I let myself be led to a four-door truck that’s parked over in a reserved parking area. He opens the rear door and points to a duffel bag on the floor.
“You can change in the backseat. Tinted windows and everything. It’s pretty roomie in there, anyway,” he continues with a flame of humor in his gaze. “Both of us could fit.”
I narrow my eyes even as my heart rate jacks up several notches.
“Both of us will not be fitting anywhere, Bates. Especially not the backseat.” I climb up into his truck, and as I slam the door behind me, I hear him chuckle.
Curse him and his coolness.
I kick off my shoes and start shimmying out of my jeans, because the sooner I get this over with, the better.
When the driver’s side door opens, I yelp and dive-bomb toward the floor. “Anton!”
“I’m not looking. Take it easy.”
I hear more than see him slide into the truck from where I’m currently hanging out on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m starting the truck so it warms up for you. We’ll be cold enough in no time,” he adds, and I hear his grin.
“Whose fault is that?” I grumble.
“No one’s forcing you to write the article.”
False .
“You can give it up anytime you can’t hang with my schedule,” he adds.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. I can’t say no to a challenge, and he’s throwing down a gauntlet here that my competitive nature is lapping right up .
“I won’t be giving up.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Keep your eyes forward, Bates.”
I pull on a pair of spandex board shorts. They’re slightly big, but I roll the waist and they should work. There’s a sports bra in the bag, and I refuse to think about Anton shopping for this for me. He probably sent an assistant or someone from the team to do his bidding. He’s a busy man. There’s no way he made time between getting home from California and showing up here to go shopping with me in mind. Right?
The mental picture of him in a clothing store, sifting through racks or bins or shelves and hunting down my size, running his hands over the material I’m now wearing on my body, is so startling I suck in an audible breath.
“You alright? Got enough room back there?” A motorized mechanism whirrs to life, and the driver’s seat moves forward.
“I’m fine. You didn’t have to buy me clothes,” I say more quietly.
He doesn’t respond right away.
I pull the sports bra over my head and slip on the long-sleeved, water-wicking shirt he’s packed. It’s got a mock neck and the periwinkle-and-orange River Foxes logo on it.
“Figured you needed some River Foxes gear anyway,” he says as I pull on a pair of sweatpants and see that they, too, are stitched with the River Foxes emblem. “Since you’ll be around the team and all. You need to look like a fan.”
“Shouldn’t I stay neutral, for my journalistic integrity?” I contort my body to pull on my fleece-lined boots. “Maybe I should pick up a couple of jerseys from some of your opponents. Make sure no one thinks I’m playing favorites.”
Am I messing with him? You bet. The low growl that comes from the front seat tells me I struck a chord. Good.
What I don’t say—what I won’t admit—is that I own exactly one NFL jersey. Well, two. But they’re both his. One from his days on the Mobile Tigers. And a River Foxes one with the number 4 on it. I keep them in my bottom drawer, buried underneath my sweatshirts.
I wedge myself up off the ground and struggle back into my parka, pulling up the hood around my face with a huff. Anton has gone very still in the front seat.
“There. I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.” When he doesn’t respond, I tap his shoulder. “Hello?”
He clears his throat. “Right. Yeah. Let’s go.”
He hops out of the front seat, and I don’t have any time to figure out what sort of cat got his tongue. Because there’s a frozen bay waiting for me to jump into it.