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“Not quite – hmmmm.” He pauses, frowning. “A little bit.”
“He taught you what you needed to know to be king? Like I learned how to be queen?”
A mocking laugh greets my question. “Rooney would love it if you described it that way.”
“How old were you when he taught you?”
“It started at eight. Ended at twelve.”
“So young!”
“Yes.”
“Why did he teach you?”
“Why?”
“Yes.”
Cam sighs, reaching up with his left hand to wipe his eye, rubbing it. The gesture makes him seem tired. Four hours ago, I was at my home, waiting for a dog trainer.
Now I am on the run in a stolen car with my future husband, who is telling me how Makiah Rooney taught him to be a thief.
Instead of answering, he reaches for his phone and says to me, “Hold the wheel.”
“The wheel?”
“You can drive?”
“I – no.”
“No one ever taught you how to drive?”
I shake my head.
His sigh this time is heavier. “Just hold it steady while I type.”
I do as told, the steering wheel light as a feather and easy to keep on track. He writes a text, then holds the wheel again. When a new text comes in, he reads it, nodding.
“We might not need the car change.” His stomach growls, and he looks down on the ground, where Winnie now rests between my feet. “Can you grab that water jug?”
My own stomach pangs with hunger.
“There are protein bars in the console,” he says, reading my mind.
“You thought of everything,” I joke, but he gives me a wry smile as I find the bars and we each eat one, my hunger rising up strong and pure.
Fifteen minutes later we’re done, I’ve had water, and Cam mumbles something about needing caffeine.
“Are you stopping at a gas station?” I ask, earning a glare.
“With you? No.”
“But—”
“Fool me once, shame on me, Princess. Fool me twice, we both end up dead.”
“That’s not how the rhyme goes.”
