“I didn’t carry you anywhere.”
“But—Larry said?—”
Abby smiled, his dark eyes sparkling with humor from beneath the bill of his Flyers hat.
“Then who ...” I trailed off as the horrible realization swallowed me in increments like quicksand.
“You’re getting there,” Abby said happily. “I always knew that A/B honor roll would come in handy for you someday, Mac.”
With a growl, I turned and stomped off toward the field. I could see headlights shining in the back row of parked trucks, illuminating the thick trees and undergrowth that surrounded the property.
There was no way Brady was going to get away with riding to my rescue twice in one week. Just who did he think he was?
I’d known Brady my whole life. He’d been my childhood tormentor. My prankster equivalent. The pain in my admittedly great ass. But I’d been all of those things right back.
He’d never once tried to take on this misguided role of gentleman protector. We didn’t do the nice, polite thing. We were real with each other—our most unhinged selves. He was the one person I could count on tonotgo easy on me.
I relied on his ridiculous sense of humor, his consistent immaturity, and his dedication to revenge. We were supposed to be on the same page. He was not supposed to carry me to my car and make sure I got home okay. Nor was he supposed to stand up to bullies and defend me behind my back without even blackmailing me over it!
Brady had deviated from his role—from our expected outcomes. He’d entered uncharted territory, and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Did I owe him now? How could I reciprocate all of ... that?
And where had this knight in tarnished armor even come from? Just a few weeks ago, he was accusing me of destruction of property. And for the last twenty-five-odd years, he’d been taking every opportunity to get under my skin.
Frustration mounting, I shook off thoughts of the past as I tromped across the dying grass of autumn toward my target.
Brady doing something nice tonight didn’treallymatter. We had a history to contend with. And I was good at holding a grudge. Two good deeds didn’t change things between us. It just turned down the volume. We were how we were. We played to win.
Except now, he was trying to change the rules of the game.
I marched right up to Brady’s big truck and peered in the passenger-side window. What I saw had me pausing with my fist raised, prepared to knock and get his attention. But Brady was hunched over the steering wheel, hanging on for dear life and breathing like he’d just run a four-minute mile.
Stunned to high heaven, I remained motionless, watching him heave with panting breaths. He looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. What the hell? Why would a run-in with Connor Pritchard make him react this way?
I made a split-second decision and hammered my fist on the glass to get his attention, figuring he’d be better off in the long run if I snapped him out of whatever was going on inside that brain of his.
Except Brady jumped a mile in surprise, smacking his head on the top of his truck.
Wincing, I opened the door and slipped inside. “What? You thought I was carjacking you?”
Brady stared at me incredulously. “What are you doing? Trying to give me a heart attack?”
You looked like you were already in the middle of one, I wanted to say, but kept that to myself. “Not specifically, but it was a nice side effect.” I grinned.
He grimaced and looked away. “Please, MacKenzie. Not tonight.”
Stunned, I turned in the seat to face him fully. Heneverused my full first name. It was always Mac Mac or Big Mac or MacBook Pro or Mac Daddy. Betweenthis fact and the scene I’d walked in on, something was up. Sudden interest had my eyes narrowing. The urge to be nosy threatened, but I’d followed him out here for a reason.
“Listen, Brady, they told me what you did. What you said to Connor,” I clarified. “And while I do not need a man to defend my honor—I can defend my own honor, thank you very much—I still appreciate the effort.”
Brady wasn’t giving me his attention, and I didn’t like it. His focus was trained on the windshield in front of him. The blue glow from his dashboard highlighted the hard swallow he took.
What was going on here? Why was he so visibly rattled, and why had he bothered standing up to Connor in the first place?
Curiosity getting the better of me, I blurted, “So why did you? Do it, I mean. Why did you get in Connor’s face and defend me like that?”
Finally, Brady’s gaze swung to mine. His eyes looked troubled, and his face was tense in a way that was completely unnatural and unexpected. This guy could talk down an irate customer, charm tourists and locals alike, and diffuse nearly any situation. I’d watched him stop a bar fight at Mattie B’s by juggling billiard balls and singing “Sweet Home Alabama” at the top of his lungs. Seeing him without a smile on his face was a rare occurrence. Even when we sparred, he always looked like he was enjoying it.
