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I give him a sad smile, trying to hide my disappointment. “Of course, that makes sense.”
“Do you have everything you need? Shall we go?”
“Let me just grab my bag,” I say.
“Don’t forget your coat.”
“I don’t have one,” I reply, and he freezes.
“What?”
I sigh. “I’ve been waiting to get paid.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? We could have grabbed your coat from your friend’s place or yours.” A puzzled expression clouds his face and it makes me want to rise up on my tiptoes and smooth out the crease between his brow. Someone that handsome should not mar their perfection by frowning. “You didn’t have a coat on when you came to interview either. Have you not had one all this time? We’re due snow!”
“Let’s go. I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
Once we’re in his car – a gorgeous sleek black Porsche – he turns the heating up and the music down, and once we’re on the road he speaks.
“Tell me what happened.”
I sigh, but give in because something tells me he won’t let this go otherwise.
“I had a coat. I was working my shift at the diner and…it didn’t go well. I left in a hurry, leaving my coat behind.”
“Why didn’t you go back and get it?”
“Because I was fired and didn’t leave under the best of circumstances.”
“Okay. Why were you fired?”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“As your employer, no? But as someone who would like to be your friend, I think it would be good to know.”
“I broke someone’s finger.”
“On purpose?” He takes his eyes from the road just long enough to raise a brow at me and holy fuck it’s sexy. I nod. “Why?”
I bite back a smile. Because if I grin when confessing I broke a guy’s finger without even blinking, I’ll look like a psychopath, but that’s not what has me smiling. It’s the way Wint is so matter of fact, accepting that I was violent and asking why – like he already believes that this guy did something to deserve it.
“A guy grabbed my ass. Several times, and I warned him. He saw that as a joke or a challenge and it triggered me. I snapped. My bosses overreacted, but they were right to fire me.”
“Overreacted how?”
“They acted like I’d killed the guy, chopped off his fingers and served them to the kids in hotdog buns.”
“The guy was there with his kids?”
“Yep.”
“Fucking hell. You should have stabbed him.”
That makes me smile. “You were military, weren’t you?” I ask.
“Yep. Special Ops. All of us were.”
“Even Dash?” I ask, trying to picture such a kind heart as a lethal killing means.
