Page 51 of Where Roads Lead

The question was raised with disapproving eyes and a huff of indignation at the mere notion of me unbuckling my seatbelt.

We’d pulled up to the house after a weirdly silent car ride, consisting of Will sulking in his own thoughts for the latter half of the drive.

I guess he probably realized he was wasting a decent chunk of his day as my chauffeur. Not that I felt any guilt about it. It was his own choice that led to him being stuck in the car with me all morning.

“I’m going to get the heater,” I said slowly.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Will—”

“I’ll go get the heater. You can wait in the car.”

“What! No way,” I protested. “I’m not letting you go in and scare an old man.”

“How would I scare him?”

“Because large, domineering men with perpetual scowls on their faces are offputting, Will. That’s why. And since this man was kind enough to give me the gift of warmth for free, the least I can do is go thank him in person.”

“And if I hadn’t come with you,” he said slowly, “you would’ve just, what—gone into a stranger’s house by yourself?”

“Uh, yeah?” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “It’s not rocket science, William.”

“Why didn’t he leave it on the porch for you?”

“I told you, he sounded elderly. He probably can’t carry it out there.” I moved to open the car door.

In one swift motion, Will leaned his body across the truck and pulled it closed. I turned to him with a frown.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of overprotective?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of naïve?”

“Yes, actually,” I said, trying the door again.

Only to have him pull the same maneuver.

Damn it, he was fast.

And smelled faintly of Old Spice deodorant in an annoyingly distracting way.

“You know, you should really upgrade your truck,” I snarked. “Then you can just baby-lock me inside next time.”

“Noted,” he said, and then opened the driver’s side door. In an easy stride, he was already making his way up toward the house before I could process what was happening.

“Wait just a second.” I scrambled to jump down from the truck.

“Go back in the car, Elsie,” he called over his shoulder, as if I were a child trailing after him on a big-boy errand. “I got this.”

I rushed to catch up with him, unwilling to let the little old man suffer through the irritating event of meeting Will Hughes for the first time without me there as a buffer.

“You don’t listen,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as if I were the great bane of his existence.

“Neither do you.”

And because I was feeling like the petulant child he treated me as, when he raised his fist to knock on the door, I dove in front of him to beat him to it.

“Ha.” I stuck my tongue out in immature satisfaction.