Chapter 8 #2
The corner of her mouth quirked, the tiniest crack in her armor. But she quickly got it under her control, turning the expression into a frown. Okay, that was more like it.
After another beer, I stood and straightened my jacket. “Okay, time to go.” I wasn’t drunk, but I was pleasantly warm, so with any luck, I could easily fall asleep in the motel room. Hopefully we’d wake up to cleared roads and get home early.
“You good?” I asked.
She’d had the whiskey and two beers, but she seemed sober.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I can operate heavy machinery. I once went vodka shot for vodka shot with an ex-KGB officer.”
“You’ve lived a strange life,” I mused.
“And you’ve lived a boring one,” she hit back.
I threw some cash on the bar, then waved to Lucky and held the door open for Sabrina.
Rather than slow, the snow had picked up. We were in the middle of a full whiteout. We just had to cross the parking lot to our room, but from here, the place wasn’t even visible.
“Jesus,” I growled as she stumbled in her heels.
With every step we took, it became more likely that she’d wind up killing herself in the name of fashion.
The next time she tripped, she wobbled dangerously, like she was going down for real, so I snagged her by the waist before she could hit the snow.
“Enough,” I said, slinging her over my shoulder.
“Unhand me,” she screamed as she arched her back.
“No. You’re bound to break your neck out here. It’s bad enough your damn car can’t handle the snow. Now your feet can’t either?”
“This is battery,” she accused. She wiggled, the move sending the side of her round ass into my cheek. “I will press charges.”
Ignoring her, I stomped in my dress shoes through the thick snow toward the flickering No Vacancy sign.
I was enjoying myself more than I should. Generally I didn’t take pleasure from manhandling women. But then again, Sabrina Monroe was no normal woman.
She was a she-devil in heels and my responsibility until this snowstorm cleared and we could get back to town.
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” I hissed.
“By compromising my bodily autonomy?” she shouted. “I’d rather risk the injury.”
“We’re one hundred yards from the room. Just shut up and keep still. Wading through knee-deep snow is hard enough without you flailing and kicking.
“You are a fucking brute.”
Amusement shot through me. “The funny thing is, I’m not. You just bring it out of me.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I brought out the worst in a man.”
“Nor the last, if we live through this storm,” I quipped.
“For a tough Vermont guy, you sure seem scared of a little snow.”
“I respect nature,” I retorted, tightening my hold on her thighs. “And understand its danger. I’ve seen too many lives lost to bad roads. And as much as I despise your obnoxious ass, I won’t have your death on my conscience.”
“God forbid Captain America do anything bad,” she trilled.
On the sidewalk outside the door, I set her down.
She pulled her skirt down, her chest heaving, glaring daggers at me. “I should press charges.”
“Feel free to call Nolan. I’d welcome a few hours of downtime in a cell right about now.”
“Really?” She cocked a hip.
Fuck. The attitude only encouraged me. Apparently I liked making her mad. Firing her up. Causing the calm, cool demeanor to crumble.
“Yes. A communal toilet would be far preferable to your presence.”
I slid the key into the lock and threw the door open. “Get in the damn room before you freeze to death.”
With a roll of her eyes, she pushed past me, kicked off the offending shoes and sighing loudly.
I shucked off my damp jacket and shoes, then stalked for the bathroom for a towel. I stripped down to my undershirt and boxers and dried off as best as I could, and by the time I emerged, Sabrina had her laptop, charger, and her colored folders out, creating a command center.
“Meg,” she said.
I turned at the sound of her voice, only to realize she was on the phone.
“Got stranded,” she groused. “Fucking snow. Talk to me.”
She paced across the small space, nodding and smiling in a way I didn’t think I’d ever seen.
“Okay, that’s good news. A DUI? I can work with that.”
DUI? Good news? What the hell was she talking about?
I ran the towel over my damp hair, still listening to one side of a very strange conversation.
“Tell him that if he interrupts again, Auntie Sabrina will cut off the Bluey. That should work; we know he needs his fix.”
Holding the towel to my head, I froze. Now I was fully intrigued.
“Nah, campaign finance? Ugh,” she went on with a roll of her eyes. “Pedestrian shit. I was hoping for some actual skeletons in the closet.”
Nodding, she bent over the small table and scribbled on her notepad. Eventually, she straightened, and with a sigh, she tossed the phone onto the bed.
“Who was that?” I asked.
Arms crossed, she shot me a glare. “No one.”
“No one?” I asked. “I thought her name was Meg.”
She turned sharply, stepping close and poking a finger into my damp undershirt. “She is no one and you heard nothing.”
Cringing, I held my hands up. “That’s not a weird response at all. Totally normal to chat with girlfriends about DUIs and Bluey.”
Ignoring me, she hovered over the folders she’d spread out on the comforter. Eventually, she sat on the bed and kicked off those weapons-grade heels.
She reorganized her documents, biting the end of her pen, her eyes narrowed in thought.