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I DON'T HAVE AN ANSWER for Princess Piss-Me-Off. Not really. When she called and asked me to bail her out, I'd like to say I was just curious. But that would be stupid, and I'm not a stupid man. Usually.
Everything about her annoys me and has since I met her. But, oddly, I like her. A lot. And it amuses me that she pushes my buttons so easily. Amusement is a new feeling for me.
I don't get it. I don't like it. I don't want to. But there it is. Something about her spoke to me on a level I don't get to with many people, and I couldn't leave her in that jail cell.
Even if she’d tried to stiff me for helping her. Even if she was some poor little rich girl with an attitude problem. Even if most people in this town would consider me a recluse.
But I'm smart enough not to let her out of my sight now that she’s my responsibility. Not if I want that bond money back. Not if I want to make sure I know what happens to her. She's a runner. She's not the first woman in my life to be one.
I turn off the highway, and she looks at me again. I don't even have to see her looking at me to know she's doing it. I feel it. Like there is some sort of tether between us. It's kind of fucked up.
"Where are you taking me, anyway?"
"Home."
She inhales sharply. "No. I'm not going back there. I won't. I don't care how nice you've been to me or how much he paid you. You can't make me go back there."
Adrenaline hums through my blood at the tone in her voice. That's fear in there. And I don't like my girl scared. She's feisty and annoying and rubs me all wrong, but that doesn't mean I'll allow anyone to hurt her. "I meant my home. And sometime real soon, you're going to tell me about the asshole that's got you so upset."
I see her shrug in my peripheral vision. "It's nothing you need to worry about."
"Forgive me if I don't believe you."
"Why? Why do you care? You don't even know me."
She's right. I don't. And yet, somehow, I think of her as my obligation.
“I can’t explain it. I just do.” It’s quiet for a minute. Which I imagine doesn’t happen often with my little princess. “Why did you call me? Why’d you get into this truck with me? Whatever you’re running from must be pretty bad if you’ve thrown in with me.”
“Why do you say that?”
"Well, for one thing, you don't know me. I'm driving you into the woods, and I haven't given you your phone back, yet you're more worried about me taking you home than to a possible serial killer lair."
"I trust you." She twists in her seat to face me, and I risk a quick look at her. "I can't explain it. I just do."
She's pretty. I already knew that. But when she's saying that she trusts me and looking at me with those amber eyes, it strikes me in the chest just how pretty she really is.
I'm sure part of her trust lies in the fact that I'm a good ten years older than her, and she probably sees me as some old guy who helps people on the side of the road for a living.
But I'm not that safe. And I’m not that old.
That feeling in my chest is spreading lower now. She's more than pretty. That sassy attitude doesn't just piss me off, it also gets me off. Or it does now that I'm thinking about it that way.
Shit. I should have left her in that cell. She mighta been better off.
Not sure what I was thinking bringing her home anyway. I haven't had a woman to my house since...well, since my mom took off when I was a teenager. The first three years after she left, I never had anyone over to the dingy trailer we lived in because I was afraid they'd figure out I was living there alone and make me go to foster care. After I turned eighteen, I guess it just never occurred to me to bring outsiders to my place anymore. I have friends, I've had women—I just don't have them over to my house.
Now I'm bringing a stranger home.
We drive in peace for a few miles when she asks, "How far away do you live?"
"A ways. I like my solitude. And my quiet."
"Then why on earth are you bringing me there?"
It startles her when I laugh. I'm surprised by the laugh, too. I'm not a man without humor, unlike what I'm sure she believes about me, but there hasn't been much to laugh at today.
We pull off the main road, but it's still two miles to my cabin. Two miles of thinking time. For my part, it's spent on wondering what she's running from.
When I first met her yesterday, I'll admit my first reaction was, "fuck yeah," when I came upon her bent over the hood, her short skirt riding up those biteable thighs. Her ass is extra juicy—round and luscious. She's got long blonde hair like a movie star, and the whole setup looked like the beginning of a porno.
But as soon as she started talking, I realized the situation was more Blair Witch than Tammy Does Tow Trucker.
Layna speaks in circles. No, Layna speaks in crazy eights. Just when you figure out what the hell she's talking about, you realize she's already changed the subject and you're behind again.
It put me off long enough to purge my indecent thoughts—for all of two minutes. Then my thoughts got worse. Ways to keep that mouth busy topped my brain. Then when she started really speaking her mind, and I realized she was testing me for some reason, thoughts of leaving my handprints on her naked ass kept me uncomfortable in my coveralls.
She'd been trying, yesterday, to see how far she could push me. So the harder she tried to get me to crack, the more control I pushed back at her. Which, for future reference, drove her batshit crazy. She didn’t like that I wasn’t someone she could manipulate. I have a feeling most men fall over their own feet trying to please her.
So when she was finally out of my hair, and I should have been relieved, I found I missed her mouth, her ass, and even the attitude.
Well, now I've got her. I don't know what I'm going to do with her. But I've got her.
When my cabin finally comes into view, I watch for her reaction. The car I dragged out of the ditch, her clothes, and just her general attitude show she's from money. My cabin is probably smaller than her bathroom. She'll probably make some redneck jokes.
Not sure why I care, though.
"I feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder," she says jumping down from the truck before I can get to her side. "If I call you Pa, will you call me Half-Pint?” she asks as I round the front.
"You call me Daddy, and I'll call you anything you like." Her eyes go round with shock, and I mentally kick myself. I don't even know where that came from.
"You're kind of a dirty old man, aren't you?" She's not scared, just teasing me. It feels like a long time since I've been teased by a pretty girl.
Woman.
I open the front door. "You have no idea."
I'm keeping it light. I'm not that good at flirting. When I want to get laid, I usually make myself pretty clear and that has worked well for me in the past.
Dating has been more miss than hit, but that's on me, too. I'm not a misanthrope—but I am reclusive. The people I like, I like a lot. The rest I don't expend my energy on.
She takes in the front room of my cabin with a huge smile on her face. "There are a lot of books in here."
"I like to read." I've always liked to read. Reading was my escape as a kid and my solace when my mom took off. I could always get lost in a book when real life got too hard. When I had to read by candlelight when the power was cut off. When I spent my first holidays alone because I couldn't tell anyone she was gone.
Now, life is better. I still read, but I spend holidays with friends, and I can pay my power bill.
Layna likes everything about my house but my office loft. "What in the world is happening in here?"
"You've never seen paperwork before, princess?"
"Is this how you run your business?" Her hands go on those curvy hips, and she mimics my pose from the courthouse steps. "How do you track your profitability if all your receipts are in messy piles?"
I lean against the wall and want to chuckle at her incredulous tone. "If money is in the bank, it's profitable. If it's not, it's been a bad month."
"You have got to be kidding me." She starts rifling through my piles. I should stop her. It's not her business what I make or don't make, and she's still in stranger territory. But I don't stop her. I watch her mutter to herself and say mean things about my ancient computer.
"What kind of business software do you use?"
"There's a spreadsheet."
The look she shoots me is almost murderous. "This is a crime scene."
"What do you know about receipts and invoices?" I try to lead her back to the stairs, but she resists.
"My father taught me a lot, actually. I'm good with numbers."
Her voice changes when she talks about her father. She gets this sad, faraway look in her eyes, so I change the subject. "Are you hungry?"
"Famished, actually. I had a dry turkey sandwich hours ago courtesy of the Iron Bar Bistro. Last night I guess, now that I think about it."
"Sounds delicious."
She shrugs. "Almost."
I lead her away from my disaster of an office and to the bathroom. "There's a clean robe on the hook and a towel in the cupboard. I don't have any fancy princess soap, but you can freshen up while I put together something that is hopefully more appetizing than prison food."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
She's looking less porn-dream right now. Her hair has lost some of its bounce, and the circles under her eyes mean she probably slept like shit in jail. For some reason, though, I don't want to stop looking at her. She's the prettiest thing I think I've ever seen. And I want to wipe away some of that tension and make her feel safe from whatever she's running from.
"Maybe I like you, Layna."
She snorts. "As if."
"I think you deserve a break."
Her eyes well up and she nods her thanks. I turn to leave her in peace, but she grabs my wrist.
"Is it really Rogan?"
"Lance Rogan, but everyone calls me Rogan."
"Thank you, Rogan. I'm not usually so lost."
I let her go without an answer. Truth is, I'm not usually so found.