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As the SUV slows to a stop, I’m looking online for gently used machines and coming up empty. I regret being responsible and not getting a credit card when Quincy told me about the one she got for emergencies while she was going to be on campus for college. I could buy a new machine with the profit from the order, but it would require them paying in full before getting started. Even in my head that sounds like a scam, and something unlikely the requester would go for.
I close out of all the tabs on my phone, knowing any more research would be a further waste of time.
Embroidery on footballs, or even on the baseballs I saw some crafters doing, isn’t what I want to do with my life, but at least it’s sewing adjacent. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. I knew when I left home, I wouldn’t just have my dream job land in my lap, but getting rid of my sewing machine seems like a step backward, not forward.
“Why are you making all those noises?” Emmett asks.
I lift my gaze to him, scrunching my nose at him in annoyance. Can’t he see I’m in the middle of a life crisis?
I frown when I realize how dramatic that sounds even in my head.
“What’s gotten you suddenly so annoyed?”
Ignoring his inciting questions, I try and shift the topic. “What do you think the chances are that I could get a loan?”
He shrugs. “I guess it depends on what you need it for. If you need money—”
“A business loan,” I clarify. “From a bank.”
His cheek twitches. “Slim.”
His eyes drop to my mouth when I frown, and it has the power to derail every other thought in my head. I look away.
“I mean, you’re young and interest rates are incredibly high right now. You have no job, no way to pay them back. You—”
“I fucking get it,” I snap, unable to sit here and listen to my failures as an adult being ticked off on his fingers.
“And that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble.”
I shift in the seat and turn back to look at him. “As you stated, I may be young, but I’m an adult. I can speak however I like.”
He doesn’t look impressed with my declaration, but he also doesn’t argue with it.
I attempt the mature thing and shift back to facing forward, but his eyes lock on the skin exposed on my legs. I have to fight the urge to climb in his lap when his tongue skates out, tasting the curve of his bottom lip. I may not be an expert at reading people, but there’s no mistaking his attraction to me right now.
Instead of hating it because I feel like he insulted me, I say nothing, liking his attention on me.
I roll my lips between my teeth, fighting a smile when someone behind us honks. It makes him jerk his eyes back to the road, the light having turned green while he was focused on me.
I know I came to New Mexico and told him he promised to marry me all those years ago, but I also knew it would never happen. The notion of it is crazy. Our age difference is insane, more an issue for him I imagine than it would be for me, but still. Him watching me the way he just was doesn’t gross me out at all. I felt the heat of his eyes in places I have no business imagining him seeing.
I lick my suddenly dry lips, my eyes glued out the window. I want to tease him about what just happened, in an effort to regain the upper hand, but I get the feeling it would have an adverse reaction. What I saw in his eyes was unfiltered, and the last thing I want is him thinking too hard when he looks at me.
“This is it?” I ask ten minutes later when he pulls into the parking lot of a non-descript building.
“It’s a women’s shelter,” he explains. “It wouldn’t be smart to advertise what it is.”
“Sort of like houses involved with the underground railroad?”
He nods, his eyes locked on the front door. “Most of the agencies in town, like the hospitals, clinics, and churches, know this place exists, so they’re able to refer women here when they reach out for help.”
“Makes sense,” I say, hating that places like this need to exist.
He climbs out, heading to the back of the SUV, and I follow suit.
“You may have to make more than one trip,” he says, reaching in for the first casserole dish.
“Multiple trips?”
He waits for me to adjust the strap of my purse before placing the dish in my outstretched hands.
“Men don’t go inside,” he explains. “We’re a trigger for some of the women.”
