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I don’t think I’ve given away the fact that I’m awake, but the man must have freakishly good senses—or a really prickly personal space bubble—because without even looking at me he rumbles, “If you’re awake, Miss Lark, kindly get out of my lap.”
“Um!”
My whole face burns.
I snap myself upright so crisply that I not only make myself dizzy, but I get myself tangled in both his suit coat and the seat belt strapped across me.
Holy hell, shoot me now.
I spend a few more seconds squirming like I’ve got ants in my pants, embarrassing myself even more, before I manage to fight upright.
Exhaling roughly, I blow my hair out of my face and look out the car window.
I recognize these streets.
We’re about two blocks from Grandma’s house.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“We’re almost to the address you gave me,” he interrupts. “I hope the address was correct, anyway.”
“We’re almost to my grandmother’s, so yeah.” Wide eyed, I stare out the window, then glance back at him. “I don’t remember giving you her address. I don’t remember anything.”
“Yet you speak with remarkable lucidity in your sleep.” His words are as frigid as ever, creating this confusing contrast with the sensual roar of his voice. His expression is pensive as he keeps his gaze trained out the window. It’s almost like if he looks at me, something terrible will happen. Like a man avoiding his own power to curse. “You were quite serious about the severity of your migraines. I caught you when you fainted in the terminal. When we paged the airport PA system and there was no one there to fetch you, I asked for an address so I could drop you off. Along the way, you slept on me in traffic three times and decided to use my lap as a pillow.” Definite touch of icy offense there. “Since you were so stubborn about waking up, I had no choice but to accept the situation.”
Dude.
You could’ve just said I passed out, so you’re taking me home.
I smile faintly. It’s like talking to someone negotiating a legal contract, stating every word carefully to avoid misinterpretation and possible liability.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “I’m sorry for inconveniencing you. That’s twice you’ve saved me now.”
“Bull. Offering you a handkerchief isn’t an act of heroism. Had I left you with the TSA, you would have been fine, minus a far less comfortable nap.”
My smile strengthens at the scowl on his face.
So, so stuffy.
“Well, thanks anyway. I appreciate everything. You’re a really nice guy.”
“I’m anything but,” he retorts. “I’m simply doing what’s practical.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
I want to ask more—I’m suddenly so curious it’s practically eating me alive—but the car pulls up right outside Gran’s sweet little blue cottage, with its arched wrought iron entryway and a fence covered in climbing jasmine vines that, even in a cold late February, are green and waiting to bloom once the season warms up.
Grandma Jackie is just coming out the door, leaning hard on the forearm crutch she now uses after refusing a walker. She’s got her keys in her other hand, and she turns to lock the door while fumbling to keep her purse on her shoulder when it keeps sliding off the slickness of her bulky jacket.
All while she’s also trying to hold an umbrella over her head without dropping her crutch.
Crap.
She probably intends to pick me up at the airport, even though I told her not to.
She looks shaky. She definitely shouldn’t be standing, let alone driving.
My stomach sinks.
