“Remember, you promised not to pull her into any of Lang’s shit,” Mason said quietly.
“I also promised to keep her car running. Any chance the auto parts store down the street is open yet?”
He shook his head. “Not until noon. But I’d look for a place sooner than later. That does not sound good.”
Cara parked in the spot in front of us. The songHungry Like the Wolfemanated from the small car.
“That’s some old music for a twenty-something,” I said to Mason. “You’d think she’d be tired of it after listening to it for hours at the bar last night.”
“Cara?” Mason shook his head. “Nope. She’s a big fan of the era. In fact, it was her friends’ idea to have an eighties’ night to lure her back out into the world.”
“Because she’d been holed up, nursing her broken heart,” I said, remembering what he’d told me about her dirtbag ex.
This morning, Cara didn’t look heartbroken. When she smiled and waved at me, it struck me that she damn near glowed. That smile carried a thousand-watt charge. She wore her dark hair in a long ponytail. When she pulled off her white sunglasses, which matched her fuzzy white sweater, the hairstyle revealed more of her face, which was stunning. It also made her look young. So damn young. Because shewas.
I glanced down at my black tee shirt and favorite pair of old jeans. I was dressed for a long drive and potential engine repairs. My companion was ready for brunch at a yacht club. The contrast served as a stark reminder that we were very different. Too different for anything to happen between us. If I did something stupid like put the moves on her in that frilly white sweater, I would dirty her all up.
Shit. That thought didn’t discourage me at all. In fact, it had the opposite effect.
“What’s on your mind, Nick?” Mason asked.
No way in hell was I sharing my deep, dark, and decidedly horny thoughts about this too-young-for-me woman with anyone. “It might have been nice to know about her eighties’ fixation before I agreed to let her pick the music for most of the trip.”
“You agreed to that?” Mason’s eyes were wide. “Actually, when it comes to music genres, this one’s not her first love.”
“What is?”
The Duran Duran song ended as I shouldered my duffle bag and picked up my small toolbox. Inside the car, Cara leaned forward, apparently focused on her car radio, then Bing Cosby’s voice boomed out the opening lines ofWhite Christmas.
“No.” I swallowed the panic rising in my throat and shot a withering look at Mason. “She loves Christmas music? And you knew about this when you pushed me to travel across the country with her?”
He shrugged.
I scowled. “Just remember, old friend, payback is a bitch.”
He grinned as he slapped my back. “Safe travels, Nick. Oh, and merry Christmas.”
CHAPTER 8
CARA
We were only an hour into the drive, and I was already annoyed with Nick Roman. I’d caught him side-eyeingMother Tree, nestled safely in a packing box with air-filled cushions, when he’d loaded his bag and toolbox onto the floor behind the passenger’s seat. He’d glanced back at it at least once every few minutes since then as I’d driven us out of the city.
“What?” I finally barked at him.
He widened his eyes and stared at me, the picture of innocence. Well, as innocent as a man who looks like sin on a stick can appear. “Did I miss something?”
I puffed out air through my nose and turned off the radio. If we were going to have it out, I didn’t want to ruin the sanctity of the Chipmunk’s Christmas song by having an argument over top of it. “I can’t imagine you’ve missed anything, given the way you’ve been staring at my art piece for the past hour. You must know it better than I do at this point. So go ahead, tell me everything that’s wrong with it.”
“Hmm.”
When I glanced sideways at him, he was staring out through the windshield, his face unreadable. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“No, but I need a minute. There was a lot packed into those few sentences.” He angled his body to look straight at me. “Do people actually do that, tell you things they think are wrong with your art?”
I didn’t expect him to question me back. It surprised me enough to make me answer. “Of course. Teachers, critics, buyers.”
He nodded. “It’s literally their job. But I doubt you snapped at me because a critic gave you a bad review.”
