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I’ll call her the Audi Queen. Which is fucking terrible. So, I’m going to stick to calling her Princess.
“Thank you for saving me,” she says, voice soft, and I smile.
“Just wait until you get the bill.”
Her eyes go wide. “I should—”
“If you fuckin’ say you’re gonna even so much as offer to buy me a coffee, I’m gonna get pissed. I don’t need your money or charity, or whatever you want to call it. First,” I say, catching her arm as she’s about to jump up, “it’s part of the service, part of being a volunteer firefighter. Right there, in the volunteer part. And second, it’s called being neighborly, and we’re friendly around here. Do things for each other when needed. We’ll gossip the shit out of you on account of it being a small town, though.”
“Mack, I didn’t mean—”
“That’s gonna get worse for you, the gossiping, when you get to bumfuck Hawthorn. The place is tiny.” I scratch my head with the tip of the screwdriver. “Third, didn’t save your ass for a handout, and fourth—this is the important thing—I might not be high society, but I’m educated, own a business, and don’t need your fuckin’ money.”
She stares at me, and I hold her a beat longer then release her. “Just so we’re clear.”
“I think we are.”
“Good.”
“Great,” she snaps. I don’t look at her, but the spikiness is back, full force.
I don’t think the princess liked what I said. Maybe I went too far, but I wanted to be clear. I don’t need her money.
“I think . . . I think I’ll go to bed.” She stands.
I make a quick bet with myself she’s gonna head to the sofa, and I win.
“Take the fuckin’ bed.” I all but snarl.
“I’m smaller than you, so—”
“Sidney,” I say looking back down at the radio, “it wasn’t a suggestion.”
* * *
She didn’t fight me, which was nice, I guess. The radio’s fixed, and Lawson and Isaac know I’m good as is my rescue and we’ll be back tomorrow.
Sidney’s sleeping, curled in a little ball, hair a mass of dark burnished gold, T-shirt crumpled up to offer a glimpse of smooth pale flesh.
I pull the radio apart again.
There’s a story there. It’s heavy like smoke, a beat like the rain. I’ve got no idea of what it is or who she’s running from. Because she’s running. Right through the back roads and off the smooth highways her car’s made for. Maybe it’s not much except in her head. Maybe she killed her lover. Maybe this Victor, but no, she wanted to call him.
There’s a small spasm in my chest at the thought of Victor. But beyond the call she wanted to make she didn’t seem to fret or use him as some kind of man barrier between us.
Her bag’s sitting on the floor near the bed, and it wouldn’t take much to pick it up, go through it, and find her wallet.
See exactly who she is.
But I don’t.
Princess Sidney isn’t from here, has no intentions of being from here. She’s passing through on her way to Hawthorn Way, and then . . . who the fuck knows apart from her?
There’s no reason to peek at her life, to sniff around. She’ll be gone soon enough.
Hell, maybe tomorrow if I can fix her car.
“Nothing to see here,” I mutter. “Nothing at all.”
