“What’s myangle?” he repeated, almost laughing.
“Your whole thing is that you think I’m shifty, and now I’ve got you sitting behind a grocery store, waiting for a man wearing a literal boa so we can illegally sell him exotic pets, and you’re looking at me”—she gestured to him—“with that face, like, ‘I have a hard time believing you’re a loner, Lainey.’ ”
“The voice you use to imitate me is offensive.”
She wrapped her hand around his wrist, as best she could. “Elliot, come on.”
His eyes went to the floor—the first inkling of retreat—then back to her face. “What? We can’t be friends?” he asked, like she was the one being ridiculous.
She snorted. “That was not a look offriendship.”
“Maybe I look at all my friends like this.”
Even with the radio going, it was as though someone had turned down the volume on the world until she could hear nothing but the sound of their breaths, feeling nothing but him looking at her like she was the only thing worth looking at. Every cell in her body itched to move. But moving would be an admission that those eyes and that hair and that ridiculous chin dimple had any sort of effect on her. Because of course, they did. Even those glasses had starred in more than one dream that, though not precisely sexual in nature, had carried a confusingly erotic undercurrent.
But he didn’t need to know any of that. This was business, and he was messing with her, which meant he was messing with her livelihood, and she would not stand for that.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble over the truck’s engine.
“So I’ve been told. Another reason why I find this desire to be myfriendso confusing.”
“You really don’t want to be friends?” he asked. Was she reading this all wrong? Did he actually want to be her friend? The kind with beaded bracelets and traveling pants?
No. There was no mistaking what was happening between them, and it most certainly wasn’t platonic.
“I’d like to know why it’d be easier foryouif we becamefriends.”
He tugged her hand to his chest, and for a flicker of a moment, it looked like Elliot was going to pull her into his lap and kiss her until her legs turned to jelly. It seemed both possible and utterly implausible.
Instead, headlights shone on the metal loading bay, and he lether hand go. She sat back down, and he looked toward the parking lot.
“We’ve got company.” He nodded up at the oncoming gray van. “Is it just me, or does that windowless van look sketchy?”
“It’s a van,” she answered. “I think it’s a prerequisite to look a little sketchy.”
Monty stepped out in a suspiciously stained thermal with a different white man in overalls (no shirt) with a—you guessed it—pencil-thin mustache.
“He’s even creepier with the shirt on,” Lainey observed.
Elliot unbuckled his seat belt. “I don’t love the look of these guys. You should stay in the truck.”
“They’re exotic animal dealers, Elliot. This is how they’re supposed to look.” But she was nervous, too. Not for herself, but for the turtles. They were so little and innocent. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of entrusting them into Monty’s care.
“They’re going to sell them to normal, nice people, right?” he asked.
Lainey wasn’t sure Monty knew any normal or nice people, but when she looked over at Elliot to say as much, he appeared visibly ill. “Let’s ask them a few questions,” she replied instead. She stepped out of the truck with him following close like a shadow.
“Nice to see you again, Monty,” Lainey said, her voice sounding far more confident than she felt. “Who’s your friend?”
“Skulls,” the man said, by way of introduction. She assumed. Both the tone and the name itself were inconclusive.
“Lovely” was all she could manage in response.
“You can’t race turtles this small,” Elliot declared.
He was going to ruin this deal. They were going to lose out on $1,650, and she was going to have to share a bedroom witha turtle tank. Still, she couldn’t help but find his concern endlessly endearing.
Skulls was chewing on something when he said, “Nah, I’ve got bigger plans for these runts.”
