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He compressed his lips. “Habit, I guess.”
“I’m going to need more clarification on that when I’m finished.” She went into the portable toilet and locked the door. Through the door, she called out, “So when do you think your friend’s going to show up?”
“Soon. What do you have in this purse? It weighs a ton.”
“All the things I’ll ever need in a pinch,” she returned.
Silence came from outside.
“Are you looking through my purse, Clay?”
“Yes. You could get through an apocalypse with this much crap. What do you need a screwdriver for?”
“You never know,” she sang out.
“The water bottle I get, but binoculars? Who are you spying on?”
“Long story.” She finished up and opened the door. “Find me the hand sanitizer in my purse please.”
He lifted his head from rummaging through the contents. “How am I supposed to find it in here? You find it.” He held out the purse by the long cloth strap.
She shook her head. “I’m not touching it. Who knows what kind of germs are on my hands from that toilet. I need you to find the bottle and squirt some into my hand.”
“Squirt—” He issued a low rumble that sounded a lot like a wild beast. “Fine.” He stuck his big hand inside her purse and dug around. He came out with a bottle of contact solution.
“Try again.” She gave him a smile.
He returned it with a thunderous look. Who knew it was so easy to get under Clay Lexis’s skin?
“You handle criminals on a daily basis but you’re thrown off by a woman’s purse?”
He fished a pink bottle out and held it up to her. “This it?”
“Yup. Strawberry Dream is my favorite scent. Now squirt some in my palms please.”
Another noise grated from his throat. She smiled to herself and held out her hand. When the pink glittery liquid dropped in a large glob on her palm, she rubbed her hands together.
“Next time I don’t need quite so much, but thank you, Mr. Silver Fox.”
“There’s not going to be a next time. And stop calling me that. I’m only forty.”
“It’s not an offensive term, you know. A lot of women are into older men.”
“Jesus, Lark. Just get back in the truck.” He started walking away, the strap of her purse clenched in his fist.
“Uh, I can take my purse now.”
He stopped and practically hurled it at her.
She looked around. “Your friend still hasn’t shown up, I see.”
“I think he’s detained. He’s probably busy—”
“Hunting down people who make bombs for Quick Bunny workers to pick up?” she supplied.
“No, I was thinking—”
“That we should call him again?”
