“We’re going to check her car,” Boone says, slipping into business mode. “Storm eased up, so we’ve got a window.”
“Her car,” Nash echoes innocently, leaning back in his chair. “You mean Faith’s car?”
I choke on my coffee.
Boone kicks him under the table hard enough that it thuds.
“Nash,” he warns.
“What?” Nash rubs his shin. “I’m just confirming who we’re freezing our asses off for.”
“We’d help anyone,” Boone says pointedly.
Clay snorts. “Sure. Anyone my brother stares at with stars in his eyes.”
I freeze.
Nash’s eyebrows shoot up. Boone’s mouth twitches. He’s deciding whether to laugh or tackle Clay to the floor. Clay just grins at me, real proud of himself for dropping that grenade.
“I don’t—” I start.
“You do,” Clay says.
“You absolutely do,” Nash adds.
Boone lifts his coffee, toasting the whole damn mess. “You definitely do.”
I want to walk into traffic.
“Mind your business,” I mutter.
Nash grins. “This is literally everyone’s business.”
“I will knock your teeth out,” I say calmly.
“That’s a confession,” Clay declares.
I nearly throw my mug at him.
Boone claps his hands once. “Let’s go before Dallas kills someone.”
Good idea.
Fantastic idea.
We bundle up and step into the cold. The snow isn’t falling anymore, but it crunches high around our boots, refrozen into that hard, crusty layer that snaps under your weight.
Her car is sitting exactly where she crashed it.
Nose down in the ditch as if it tried to burrow its way to California. Snow’s drifted halfway up the tires, turned to a crusted ridge along the bumper. One headlight’s dead; the other is fogged over with ice.
“Damn,” Nash whistles low, hands on his hips. “She hit that pretty good.”
Boone gives him a look. “It could’ve been worse.”
“Sure,” Nash says. “Could’ve been a cow.”
Clay snorts. “Or your face.”
