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“No.”
Another stretch and Fletcher shifted in his seat. “Damn, I didn’t expect to just go to sleep.”
That would make two of us.
He wiggled all his fingers then reached for what had to be icy coffee and knocked all of it back. I spared him a look as his throat flexed with each swallow then back to the road.
“You pissed at me, Drew?”
Was I? “No.”
“You sound angry.”
“No,” I said slowly. “I don’t.”
“Okay, you don’t, you’ve got all those cool, frosty tones like you’re annoyed. And sorry I went to sleep on you, I was having a hell of a time waking up, even with coffee.”
Then again, Rick had ground up melatonin into his decaffeinated coffee. I’d never heard of it having long-term effects, didn’t mean it couldn’t. Especially if any of it was still in his system or…
I sighed.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just had a thought. I’ll deal with it later. We’ll be there in thirty minutes, do you need more caffeine?” Because if Rick had dosed him again before we left, so he’d be more malleable on the road, I’d getwhy, but I would have to have a talk with him. We couldn’t just dope people up, even for their own good.
We had to havesomeboundaries.
Rick also liked boundaries.
“No, I’m fine.” Fletcher’s yawn decried that statement and he grunted. “Okay, maybe a couple of power drinks. This is odd. Though—I slept damn good last night and this morning.” He flashed me a grin. “Must be your excellent company.”
A smile pulled at my lips and I nodded to the sign we passed. “There’s a truck stop in a couple of miles. I’ll get gas, you go in and get your drink—pay cash.”
“Yep.” He reached behind his seat and pulled a hat out from the side of the bag he’d dropped back there when he got in and tugged it on over his head. “You want anything?”
“Cold water.”
I didn’t want any chemicals in me at all from this point forward. No caffeine. No stimulants. No excess sugars. Nothing to throw my judgment off.
“I'll grab it. Do I shred those cups before I throw them away?” He nodded to the coffee cups. “Not sure what the cleaning rules are for the road.”
“Touch as little as possible with your fingertips,” I said. “Some things can’t be helped, but see what you can do to not. There’s lotion in the glove box. Use it. It will puff up your fingers, makes them greasier, harder to lift a print.”
“Anyone ever tell you how sexy you are ‘cause you know this stuff?”
I snorted. “I’m sure this isn’t what you find sexy, Fletcher. I looked into you before ever extending a job offer. Based on the research that came up, I’m all too familiar with the type of busty bimbos you usually go for.” I cut a sly grin his way.
From the pictures I’d found of him on the internet at previous fundraisers and galas, he’d always had an extremely curvaceous woman on his arm, with over the top hair and a vacant gaze. Okay, I might have been a little facetious with that remark, because I knew more than anyone you can never judge a book by its cover, but seriously? He had a type.
A type that I in no way fit at all. I had a decent amount of curves, but more muscle and definitely nothing on the wrong side of obscene. I didn’t dress provocatively either. In my line of work, subtle beauty was a better option. Beautiful enough to run in certain circles for jobs, but nothing so head turning that I would stand out in their memory the day after.
His eyes nearly popped out of his head, then he tipped his head back in raucous laughter. “I can’t…” he wheezed into another laugh. “I can’t believe you looked me up. That’s my job!”
Entranced by the open humor on his face, I found myself unconsciously leaning in toward him.
Then he dropped his head, shooting me a lopsided, adorable grin. “Okay, to be fair, those pictures are from years ago, when I still gave a shit about the family reputation to attend those events. Because I know exactly what you’re talking about. However—” He pointed a finger at me. “—I also despised them and picked women they’d hate. Nothing they hated more than being photographed with ‘trash.’” His grin turned sheepish. “And yeah, they were a good time, so it was a win-win all around.”
“You were a lot younger in those articles.” I shrugged, conceding that point at least. “So now you think survival skills are sexy?”
