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“I like that plan.” I didn’t need to hear the other one. “Let’s do that plan.”
“Or,” he said, smiling, “there’s Plan B, where you can save everyone’s time by just letting me take you home.”
“How exactly does that plan save you time?”
“Because if you pick Plan A, I’m going to wait until this person comes to get you,” he said. “I’m not going to abandon you and let you wait alone.”
“So, you’re a gentleman?”
“I’m an opportunist.” He smiled, and I felt my heart racing against my chest, felt my knees going weak.
Do not get into the car with this man, Kate. Serial killers can be sexy as hell, too.
“I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not a serial killer.” He looked at me and I realized I’d uttered those words aloud. “Here.” He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, showing his driver’s license.
Above his gorgeous picture was his name. James S. Garrett. According to the numbers under it, his birthday was a month after mine, and he was five years older than me.
He put his license away and tossed the bags into the truck. “So,” he said, gently tugging at my left bunny ear, “do I need to worry about you being a serial killer? Do you have a name?”
“Kate Ken?” I coughed, remembering what he’d said about my family. “Kate Kennedy.”
“Hmmm.” He moved closer, the scent of his cologne making me want to close the gap between us and demand that he press his perfect lips against mine. “So, Kate Kennedy, what’s it going to be? Are you waiting or are you riding?”
“Riding.” The word came out of my mouth before I could think on it any longer. “Plan A.”
IT ONLY TOOK HALF AN hour of riding in James’ truck for me to fully understand what Sarah Kay meant by “a guy who can make your panties wet.” Mine were soaked—a complete lost cause, due to James staring at me whenever we slowed, or him gently pushing the bunny ear off my forehead whenever the wind knocked it out of place.
The only sounds between us were the rushing winds against the open windows and the faint sound of Lake Tahoe’s water lapping against the shore in the distance.
Still, ever so often, he’d look over at me and smile in a way that sent butterflies fluttering against my stomach. Or, he’d hand me a snack and let his fingers linger against mine for a few seconds longer than necessary.
As we approached the bend near the outskirts of Reno, he cleared his throat.
“Who did you come to the party with?”
“My sister and her boyfriend,” I said. “It was their idea in the first place.”
“What about your boyfriend?” He looked over at me as we approached a stop sign.
“My boyfriend couldn’t make it.” I shrugged. “What about your girlfriend? I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate you taking some random girl home after you were kissing her against a tree.”
He let out a low laugh. “She probably wouldn’t. If she was actually my girlfriend.” He paused. “She was a drunk friend and I was helping until her real boyfriend showed up.”
“Sure you were.”
“It’s the truth,” he said. “Besides, if I was kissing her, I can guarantee that she wouldn’t have been able to walk away that easily. She wouldn’t have been able to keep her balance at all, and I’m pretty sure she would be the one sitting in my front seat feeling turned on, not you.”
I ignored his “feeling turned on” comment and crossed my legs. “You honestly think you’re that good of a kisser?”
“I know that I am.”
“Well, for what’s it’s worth,” I said, “I think you’re being a bit too cocky about your skills. My boyfriend gives me plenty of amazing kisses, and I’ve never had a problem walking away from any of them.”
“Then it sounds like you need a new boyfriend.” His lips curved into a smile. “We need to make a stop in twenty minutes.”
“Is it at the place where the police will eventually find my body?”
“No, that place is seventeen miles away. We still have plenty of time before we get there.”
I shot him a look, and he laughed.
“You keep uncrossing and re-crossing your legs,” he said. “I’m assuming you need to go to the bathroom. That, or …” His voice trailed off, and I didn’t bother asking him what he was trying to imply by that “or”.
Blushing, I stared out the window as we coasted past more of Reno’s mountains.
He pulled off on an exit and steered his truck into the parking lot of a shopping center. Turning up the heat on his dashboard, he unbuckled his seatbelt.
“I don’t have to go to the restroom,” I said.
“I’m aware.” He smiled before stepping out. “I’ll be right back.”
Were there any Mystery Murder episodes about ‘girl being left in a shopping center parking lot seconds before the guy comes back and sets car on fire?’
