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He ignored the compliment-slash-jibe. “Did you contact Miss Scanlon and let her know about our difficulties? Did she make arrangements for our travel expenses?”
I cleared my throat and nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
I glanced down at my phone, noting that while we were standing outside, I’d received another call from my mother. I grumbled, shoving it into my purse, and then turned the keys in the ignition.
“Miss Puckett.”
I looked up into the rearview mirror to see blue eyes glaring at me. I moved to put the car into gear, and the frown deepened.
His velvety voice was more insistent—and slightly pissed at being ignored. “Miss Puckett.”
I shoved the gearshift back into park. When I turned to face him, I was smiling so sweetly I feared my cheeks would crack. “Yes?”
He had his arm stretched across the backseat in a casual, “Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bond” supervillain pose. The top of his light blue shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the perfectly symmetrical hollow of his throat. A sudden, compulsive urge to lick that narrow expanse of skin, framed by slender cords of muscle, overwhelmed my brain, and I had to grip the steering wheel to keep myself in the front seat.
Did they make Adam’s apple porn? Was that a thing? Would I be scarred for life if I Googled it? And if I couldn’t find any pictures, could I take my own? My camera was in the bottom of my bag—
And then I realized that I was staring at Mr. Sutherland’s throat cleavage … and he was clearly aware of this. I could tell by the curious lift of his eyebrow. My cheeks flamed, a rush of blood beneath my skin that shocked as much as it shamed. How could a stare—well, let’s be honest, it was a glare—be enough to make my panties spontaneously combust?
I cleared my throat, breaking contact with the blue orbs of sexy evil. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t be starting the car right now?”
He let his eyes narrow at the offending piece of paper on my dashboard.
I snatched it up. “What, this?”
His lip curled back into a grimace. “Yes, Miss Puckett. What is that?”
“That would be a hamburger wrapper.”
“Yes,” he purred. “And what do we know about hamburger wrappers?”
“Their contents are meaty and delicious?”
His lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Litter, Miss Puckett. The car is to be free of litter.”
“Right, sorry,” I said, stuffing the offending paper into a paper sack. “Vampires have an aversion to human food, right? It smells spoiled to you?”
“No, I dislike the idea of riding around with your lunch leftovers for the rest of the evening.” He sniffed. I started the car and pulled onto the shoulder. He nodded slightly. “But yes, vampires lack the enzymes to digest solids, so our bodies instinctively reject human food. The smell is unappetizing. And if we ate so much as a slice of bread, violent vomiting would follow.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate, given our next stop.”
I CAN SEE YOUR HEADLIGHTS
4
Pete’s Diner was bright and cheerfully decorated in insistently nostalgic aquas and pinks. I sat at the booth, considering my menu options, while Mr. Sutherland glowered at our general surroundings. A less mature part of myself wanted to order something really pungent, such as olive loaf and onion rings. But I chose considerately, turkey on whole wheat and an iced tea.
Mr. Sutherland looked as out of place as I did when I visited my parents’ law firm. He ordered a coffee so he wouldn’t seem conspicuous and sat ramrod-straight against the cozy booth seat. He was staring me down, measuring me, recording little details, and he meticulously polished his silverware with his napkin. I did my best not to fidget or make origami out of the straw wrappers.
“I know that we haven’t had an ideal travel experience so far,” I admitted in an effort to break the silence. “Honestly, I’m not trying to annoy you. At this point, all I can promise is that I’m not intentionally trying to do the things that make you angry … anymore.”
“I am overwhelmed in the face of your generosity.” From the kitchen, I heard the hiss of onions hitting the grill. Mr. Sutherland shuddered as the sharp smell rippled through the air, adding another layer to the symphony of scents already hanging over the diner.
“You’re the one who scheduled my meal breaks,” I reminded him without my usual sarcasm. “It’s not my fault you did it by location instead of time.”
“Yes, but I thought we would be farther along the road by now. I assumed that you would eat dinner before I woke,” he said, eyeing a passing tray full of chili specials as if the secret ingredient was ebola virus.
“Well, we would be running on time if I hadn’t had to stop at the police station this morning. Contingencies, Mr. Sutherland. They happen.”
