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There it was.
He heard me.
“I’m paying you back,” I reminded him.
“Right,” he repeated his earlier, enigmatic sentiment.
Whatever.
I was paying him back. He’d see.
“Can I eat in your car?”
“Knock yourself out,” he replied as he drove to the exit.
I left the burger for later, chased the tots with the root beer, and was glad traffic was light so he could get me to my car, and with any luck, I could get home before my malt totally melted.
When he pulled alongside my car, for some insane reason, I turned to him and spoke.
“I didn’t know she was in there. I was just checking. Once I saw her in the window, I was going to go to the alley and call the police. But I saw him headed her way. I had to do something. I couldn’t know you and your partner were on the case and at my back.”
“She’s safe. With kidnapping her, he’s gonna get life. That waste of humanity will die in prison. You were right. All’s well that ends well.”
I felt weird because I was attracted to him, and as such, obviously, I didn’t want him to think I was a dork.
On the other hand, I had a feeling he knew I was attracted to him, and he hadn’t “decided” about me, and he was drop-dead gorgeous so he probably just had to crook a finger and any heterosexual woman would fall all over themselves to follow wherever he went, and he oh-so-totally knew that. So I thought he was likely a conceited jerk.
And outside of popping by his office, which he clearly didn’t spend much time in, say, unwrapping furniture, this was possibly going to be it, and he hadn’t asked for my number.
Of course, he was a PI. He could probably find my number, easy.
“Are you gonna get out or are you gonna sit there until that malt is milk?” he prompted.
Okay, still attracted to him, but he was a total jerk.
“I feel like I need to say something, like ‘thank you for pulling that nasty asshole off me and telling the cops I was on your team so I didn’t have uncomfortable ’splaining to do.’”
“You’re welcome,” he said shortly.
Right then. Decision made, at least on my part.
This was done.
“Have a good life,” I bid and lifted my malt. “I’ll mail the check to the office.”
“On me,” he replied.
“Nope.” I shook my head, struggling, with all my drinks and foodstuffs, to open the door. “No way. I’m paying you back.”
“Hey,” he called when I jumped out.
I looked back to him.
“What’s your name?”
“Kelly Garrett,” I lied, slammed the door with my foot and turned to Tweety, putting Cap and Mace and Donald Walken/Paul Nicholson in the dark forest I never visited surrounding my Citadel of Denial.
Not looking back, I got in my car, and even though the Denali didn’t move, I pulled out and drove away.
