“I’m currently accessorized by the state of Idaho’s least romantic bracelet. What do you think?”
“I think you’re deciding whether you can make the tree line before I catch you again.”
I looked at him over my shoulder. “Can I?”
“No.”
The confidence in that word hit somewhere it shouldn’t have.
I smiled anyway. “You’d be amazed what I can do when properly motivated.”
“I’ve seen enough to be concerned.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
Dex guided me away from the truck, his hand firm around my upper arm. He walked me back to my sedan, opened the driver’s door wider, and leaned in without turning his back on me. Smart man. Very unfortunate.
He took my keys from the ignition, then reached for the purse on the passenger seat.
“Hey,” I said. “At least ask before you go through a woman’s bag.”
“You got anything sharp in here?”
“My personality.”
He gave me a look over his shoulder.
“What?” I asked. “You asked.”
He searched quickly and without making a production of it. Wallet. Lip balm. Gas receipts. A half-melted protein bar. A roll of electrical tape. A tiny sketchbook with three pages of old tattoo design ideas and two pages of notes I didn’t want him reading.
He flipped the sketchbook open.
I stepped forward before the cuffs stopped me short. “That’s personal.”
Dex glanced at the first page, then closed it and put it back in the bag.
I hadn’t expected that.
“Thank you,” I said before I could stop myself.
His gaze flicked up.
That small courtesy sat between us, awkward and hot and dangerous.
Then he found the phone in the cup holder.
Not the one in my boot.
The one I wanted him to find.
He held it up. “Password?”
“Zero, zero, zero, zero.”
He looked at me.
“I’m kidding,” I said. “It’s my birthday.”
