Page 19 of In Your Wake

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.” He tucks his lower lip into his mouth, glancing toward the house behind us. “But I’m here, and I’m willing to let it all go.”

“That’s mighty noble of you.” I touch my pocket and clench my jaw, pulling out my keys.

“At some point, we’ll need to talk about this.”

“No, we really won’t.” Quickly, I get into my car, slamming the door, but haven’t even slid the key into the ignition when I see Mitchell’s imposing frame standing on the passenger side. He opens the door and gets in. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m going with you.”

“Where?”

“To the inn. I want to see why it’s doing so badly.”

“I’m not going to the inn. I’m heading home.”

He shoves his sleeve up, checking his watch, a chunky, silver thing. “It’s early. You have time to stop by.”

It’s not a suggestion, but an order. I grip the steering wheel so I don’t slap the cocky grin off his face. “I am so not driving you anywhere. Or doing anything you say. Get out of my car.”

He sinks down into the seat, resting his head back. “I’m not getting out, so you might as well drive.” His scruffy beard only seems to accentuate that irritating smirk.

I cross my arms and jut my chin. “Well, you can’t make me.”

His head lolls my way, and he locks me in with a dark glower that forces me to swallow. “You know perfectly well I can make you.”

“Is that right?” I chuckle. “How, with one of your infamous tickle attacks?” I’m joking, but he arches an eyebrow, highlighting the sinister interest in his eyes. “You’re kidding. You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not sixteen, Mitch. You can’t tickle me into submission.”

Amused, he finally tears his gaze away. “No, maybe not. Guess I’ll have to find other ways to get you to submit.”

His not-so-subtle meaning plunges into my ears and swims to my core. “Get out.”

“Not happening.”

“Why don’t you drive yourself there?”

“’Cause this way we could talk.”

“All the more reason for you to drive yourself,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Worth a shot,” he replies with a shrug that grates on my nerves. He reaches for the door, glancing over his shoulder. “But like it or not, at some point we’re having this talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m over it.”

“Clearly,” he deadpans. He steps out, but holds the door and stoops to peek back in. “At least I’m mature enough to admit that I’m not over any of it.”

Something funny seizes my heart, but I pull my eyes away and aim them straight ahead.

“I’ll see you at the inn,” he says, and I hear, rather than see the smirk in his voice.

“I told you, I’m not going there.”

“Then I’ll come to your place.”

“Ha! Too bad you don’t know where I live.”

“Above the tailor’s shop,” he answers with a wink, then shuts the door.

I stare at him, slack-jawed, then roll my eyes. “Goddammit, Hunter,” I hiss under my breath, knowing my brother told him.