Page 28 of Quarter Miles (Runaway 3)

I chuckled. “Sounds like Grandma.”

“Grrr.” Kat tossed a hand in the air. “I’m on vacation. I’m not dead.”

“She’s just trying to help.”

“But it’s stressing me out. I love my job.”

“I know.”

“I want to do my job.”

“And you can.” I stepped closer and put a hand on her shoulder. How many times had I done this? How many times had I touched her? Hundreds. Thousands. Yet like last night when I’d given her a hug, suddenly everything felt differently. I yanked my hand away, the heat from her skin too hot and electric.

She looked at me, then her eyes dropped to the place where I’d touched her. They alternated back and forth, like she was checking to make sure I hadn’t wiped a booger on her or something. Then her gaze went to the ground and her shoulders slumped.

“Here.” I handed her the chocolate.

“What’s this for?”

I shrugged. “Just because.”

She lifted her lashes and gave me a sad smile. “Thanks. Maybe a few hundred empty calories will make me feel better.”

“Grandma just wants you to take a vacation. A real vacation. Let her handle whatever happens at home.”

“What if there’s a crisis?”

“She’ll call. Trust me. No news is good news.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “I feel like I got kicked out.”

“No one would ever dream of kicking you out.”

She sighed. “I’ll take the next shift driving.”

I dug the keys from my pocket and handed them over. We’d left the doors unlocked because the top was down, so I gave her some space to walk past me and around the hood before climbing in the passenger seat.

It should have been better riding shotgun, because my gaze could wander, but as we headed west on the interstate, it constantly seemed to drift toward her, like a magnet to steel. My foot bounced on the floor. My hand tapped on my knee.

Kat was stunning behind the wheel, the sun lighting her face and those floating tendrils of hair brushing her shoulders. She’d be even prettier with a smile.

“Tell me more about Aria,” I said, hoping to take Kat’s mind off work and mine off Kat. “How’d she come to live in the junkyard?”

“Because of Londyn,” she said. “They’d lived in the same trailer park. Aria and Clara were living with their uncle. Their parents died in a car accident and the uncle was the only living relative so he got custody. I never saw the guy or met him, but Londyn knew him from their neighborhood. Gemma saw him once when she snuck to their trailer with Aria to steal Clara’s bike. I guess he was a major creep. Gemma said he had these beady eyes that made you want to take a shower.”

“Did he do something to Aria and Clara?”

“I don’t know. It was a no-go subject. They knew that Londyn had run away from her druggie parents and started asking around, trying to find out where she’d gone. They walked into the junkyard one day, holding hands, and that was it. They lived with us.” A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “They each had these huge backpacks stuffed so tight that when they unzipped them, everything inside just exploded. Clothes. Food. Money. Medicine. They were far more prepared to live there than any of the rest of us had been.”

“Londyn and Karson had this Caddy. Gemma and you were in the tent. Where did Aria and Clara stay?”

“In a delivery van. They were smart. They picked a place off the ground and with fewer holes so they didn’t have to deal with the mice.”

My stomach knotted, like it had yesterday, not wanting to think about Kat sleeping with vermin. “Was it really better than home?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“What about foster care?”