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The back of his head lolled against the window. "I swear, does he have some divine notification system?"
I tried to smile but failed. Seconds passed while neither of us spoke. Wanting to put an end to it, I cleared my throat. "I guess I'll see you on Friday, then? Don't be late. Daddy doesn't like to be kept waiting."
He sighed. "Dinner's going to be awkward, isn't it? Should I be ready for a lightning bolt or plague or something worse?"
With his exaggerated comment, he'd managed to lighten things between us once again. "Coward," I teased. "Don't worry. I'll protect you."
He laughed and opened his door, then whirled back around and pressed a kiss to my lips. By the time I thought to react, he was out of the car. "I'll see you later," he mouthed before getting into his car. I was still in the same spot with my fingers to my mouth when he pulled away.
I might have made a promise to protect Jax, but now I was starting to wonder, who was going to protect me from him?
13
Jax
Where the hell is it?
I was already in a pissy mood after another long day at work, and now I'd spent the last five minutes in a grocery store searching for the required oil that my mom had asked me to pick up along with a few other items on my way to her house after work.
"Excuse me." I tapped an older woman on the shoulder and asked if she was familiar with the product I was looking for.
A minute later, I was hurrying to the end of the aisle red-faced with the woman's laughter still ringing in my ears. Who knew Oil of Olay was a beauty item? Would it have been that hard for my mom to have mentioned that little tidbit before I searched for it among the olive, peanut, vegetable, and canola non-relations?
As I rounded the corner at the end of the aisle, I was nearly run over by three small hellions who were laughing and running down the main aisle. Their mom huffed after them seconds later pushing an overloaded cart without offering an apology.
Why did I volunteer to run this errand for my mom again? Right. Because she called you at work saying she twisted her ankle while out with Aunt Julie, and she wanted to rest it before her trip in a few days. My mom almost never asked anything from me, so I immediately had answered, "Yes."
Another kid whizzed past me, bumping me hard in the side and almost knocking me into a display of toilet paper. Fitting. My day had definitely gone to shit.
"Sorry," he muttered, dark eyes stealing a glance at me as he continued his sprint toward the exit, running into more customers. I had no idea grocery shopping was a contact sport. If this is what it was like for my housekeeper to shop for me, I owed her a raise.
Seconds later, I heard the same voice cry, "Let me go!" I looked over my shoulder to see a scuffle near the exit. An older teen wearing a store apron was holding on to the arm of the same boy who'd just raced past me.
In a flash, the voice and eyes matched a memory. The sullen, lonely boy from the youth center, Micah, was now jerking this way and that as the clerk awkwardly held on.
What the hell was up with him now?
Resisting my better judgment to ignore him, I strode to the front in time to witness Micah's sweatshirt relieve itself of a small jar of peanut butter, a sleeve of crackers, a bag of beef jerky, and a couple of candy bars.
"Call the police," the aproned guy said to a co-worker, another gangly teen.
Despite halfway thinking that some time spent with the police might make this a more memorable lesson, I knew I'd kick myself later. Even if Micah deserved the trouble, his mom didn't.
I moved toward them and held up my hand. "Stop. Don't make that call. Just get your manager, please."
"But he was shoplifting!" the pimple-faced clerk squeaked. He looked at me like I was the one who was committing a felony.
Using the look that intimidated men more than twice his age, I repeated, "Get your manager." I nodded toward the second teen who looked grateful to get away.
I shot my arm out and caught Micah by the elbow as he tried to sneak away while the clerk was distracted. He scowled at me, and only the reddened tips of his ears indicated he was more than just angry.
"I'm not saying he shouldn't be held accountable. But look at him. He's a little kid." I tightened my grip on the arm when he tried to wrench it away, seemingly more perturbed by my “kid” comment than his predicament.
A harried-looking man hurried over to us. "What's going on here?"
"Well"—I paused and looked at his name tag—“George, it appears that this young man almost forgot to pay for his food."
George took in the boy's scowl and defensive posture. "You mean he was trying to steal from me." He crossed his arms and gave me a grumpy stare.
