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I snatch it from her hand.
“Hey!” Her eyes widen, and her forehead wrinkles.
I drop it on the floor and crush it with my boot.
“What the hell?” Her hands fly out.
“Oh.” I smile and look up at her. “That felt good.”
“That”—she points at the broken cell—“had all the numbers of everyone I know in it!”
“No. That”—I point down—“got us into this fucking situation. Now, pack your shit so we can get out of here.”
Chapter 8
Arms crossed over his stout chest as he leans against the counter, Cole watches me as I walk back into the kitchen.
My body turns up a few degrees.
It’s unnerving what the man does to me with those heat-shimmering gray eyes.
“Willa called,” he says.
His vigilant observation follows my hand as I reach for my purse.
“She wants you to go to the police station and file a complaint and restraining order against the piece of shit.”
“Joel,” I say with a smirk, knowing it irritates him.
And after he caused my body's temperature to rise with a mere look of those eyes and then smashed my cell, it’s well deserved.
“She’ll send me their names. Willa wants you to tell the cops that Amanda attends your support meetings, and her abuser showed up with a knife, looking for her. She doesn’t want you to say anything else. Willa just wants something on file if he shows up again. So you’ll have proof he’s a threat,” he says, his keen eyes tracking my every move.
I pick up my broken cell.
“Ya know, in case you have to introduce him to Fred again.”
“Okay,” I agree, tossing my cell in the trash, flashing my vilest look his way.
“Where is Fred?”
“I put him away.”
“Good.” He leans in closer to me, filling my nose with his polished scent. “You won’t need Fred if you have me.”
I press closer to his smug face, fighting off his solid male aroma. “That remains to be seen.” I drop my eyes to his mouth.
Fuck. That mouth. It’s like a flashlight in a dark room. My lips are drawn right to it.
I grab my backpack and toss it over my shoulder. “I’m ready.”
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to a house. Well, not a house but a mansion. Something you’d see in Palm Beach on N. Ocean Boulevard.
“This doesn’t look like the police station.”
“I have to meet someone first.” He parks the truck, glancing around the massive driveway and parking spots. “It doesn’t look like he’s here yet. Come on.” He gets out.
I take it I’m supposed to go with him. I open the door and step on the running board to shorten the drop. I follow him into the mansion.
