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She drops her arms and alarm pales her to chalk as she spins and starts to pace over the cement floor. “Hopefully. Is that some kind of money-making speak?” Then Sidney stops. “How much?”
“I’m not going to fuckin’ rob you. But . . . I’m gonna need your ID, a card. And I can help with the insurance claim—”
“No.”
“I take back the offer of help,” I mutter, my blood starting to heat.
“No, I mean, I’ll pay cash.”
I breathe out. “There’s something going on, Sidney. I can help.”
“You can’t.”
“Try me.”
She opens her mouth, closes it, and shakes her head. “No. Thanks, but no.” With that she drops her bag from her shoulder to her hand and pulls out her wallet.
It’s full of cash and before she can do a thing, I pluck her license.
“Sidney James Novak.” I raise a brow as she snatches it back. “James?”
“My grandfather’s name. It’s a thing.”
“A dumb thing.”
“Thank you, Mack Emily Burns.”
She grabs the cash and shoves it at me.
“My middle name isn’t Emily. It’s Robert.”
Now, she stares. “As in ‘Auld Lang Syne’? As in the Scottish poet?”
“Who?”
“Philistine.”
“Spoiled princess.”
I clear my throat, and she shoves her wallet back in her bag.
The wad of cash I’m holding against my chest is borderline ridiculous, and who the fuck travels with all that money other than gangsters and bank robbers?
“I take cards, Ven—”
“I don’t care.” Her words are tight, clipped, and she’s really something when she quivers with anger.
There’s probably a special hell for men with those kinda chauvinistic thoughts. Even if that one’s true.
“So, I’m thinking you’re a criminal.” I hand back the money. When she doesn’t take it, the cash flutters to the ground. “Or maybe not. You’re rich. Brand new car, expensive bag, computer, clothes, they say money. So, are you running from your old rich husband who didn’t die on your wedding night?”
“What is wrong with you?” she snaps.
I’m fucking wondering that one myself, but I’m on a roll. “But you’re a little old for that.”
“Rude.”
“And you don’t dress the part.”
