He drove past the carved and painted Welcome to Bluelick sign, with its magnolia blossom border surrounding a colorful representation of the historic brick buildings along Main Street. “No. It’s a bad habit. Potentially fatal, much like your other bad habit.”
She shot him a battle-ready look. “What other bad habit?”
“Hitchhiking.”
“Oh.” She dismissed the comment with a toss of her head. “Save the lecture. I’m trying to quit.”
And to distract him from his questions. “Try harder. Rather than contemplate polluting your lungs, why not tell me what inspired you to hitchhike Route 9?”
“I wasn’t hitchhiking. Not originally,” she corrected when he cocked a brow at her. “I left the driving to Greyhound but wound up missing my transfer in Lexington. I caught the bus to Millersville instead and figured on taking a local from there.” She flipped the visor down, checked her reflection in the mirror, and swiped at the makeup smudges under her eyes. “But there is no local, so…” Her slim shoulder lifted and dropped. “I had to go with Plan B.”
Uber? Lyft? Those pickings would be slim around these parts. “If you got a ride in Millersville, how’d you end up on the shoulder?” There weren’t any stops between the two towns. No subdivisions. No gas stations. Not even a lousy McDonalds. Just a whole lot of undeveloped county land. His stomach clenched as he thought about her trunk comment and scenarios that would have her cutting a ride short in the middle of an empty span of road. “Somebody messed with you?”
“Nobody messed with me.” She answered without pausing from her face-saving efforts.
He caught her arm and rubbed his thumb over the bruises on her wrist. “Somebody messed with you.” The words came out quietly, even though the marks pissed him off. A display of temper wouldn’t encourage her to confide in him.
She tugged away. “Those are old.” He relinquished his hold and watched from the corner of his eye as she arranged the bangles to cover the evidence of somebody’s aggressive grip.
So much for confiding.
She circled back to his original accusation, which served as a pretty good indication of how much she didn’t want to discuss the bruises. “I don’t normally hitchhike. And I didn’t catch a ride from Millersville.” She raised the visor and turned to him. “I walked. I figured I could make the trip in a few hours.”
“Seven miles with a fifty-pound duffel, a guitar, and rainclouds overhead? That was Plan B?”
“I didn’t know it was seven miles, and I’ve never minded a little rain on a hot day.” Her back went up and her chin took on a defensive jut. “The old guy at the mini-market in Millersville called it a quick skip down the road.”
“Yeah, well, my guess is he hasn’t skipped it in a long time.” A look at the dashboard told him he had thirty minutes remaining on his shift. Questions filed though his mind like lineup suspects. What brought her to Bluelick? How long did she plan to stay? Most importantly, what could he do to hurry her along? Intriguing as Roxy might be, Bluelick needed an itinerate musician about as badly as it needed a panhandler in the town square—and he wasn’t sure they didn’t amount to the same thing. He wanted more information about her plans to determine if he had this particular bundle of trouble quantified and contained. She needed a decent meal. No reason he couldn’t manage both at once. He signaled and pulled into a curbside space in front of DeShay’s Diner.
His passenger sat straighter in her seat. “Where are you going?”
“I’m hungry. You’re hungry.” He put the car in park and turned off the engine. “We’re getting something to eat.”
“You know what? I’m full. The energy bar really hit the spot, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just take my possessions and be on my way.”
“An energy bar is no substitute for a decent meal, especially not when you’ve already passed out once from lack of sustenance.”
She shook her head. “From nerves. Cops make me nervous.”
“Hitchhikers make me nervous. Let’s calm our nerves over dinner. I’m buying.” He tossed this incentive over his shoulder as he got out of the car. She stayed in the passenger seat, examining her non-existent options until he came around and opened her door.
The prompt got her moving. She stepped out of the car, faced him, and crossed her arms, unwittingly—or maybe quite wittingly—plumping her breasts over the draping neckline of her shirt. “Can I at least get my things out of the trunk?”
“After.” As long as he had her gear, he had her.
Her exaggerated sigh told him what she thought of his tactics, as did the way she pivoted and walked toward the diner, flip-flops clicking off each impatient step. A couple strides from him easily closed the distance. He reached for the door and accidentally brushed her in the process. Nothing out of line, just the inside of his arm against the curve of her shoulder, but the innocent contact stopped them both in their tracks. She glanced up, and their gazes held for a moment—long enough for him to see a flare of something hot and combustible in her eyes before she looked away and murmured, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, knowing damn well she’d seen the same combustible heat burning in him. The kind fueled by way too much chemistry and perversely fanned by the knowledge acting on it would be bat-shitably certifiable.
Air thick with the scents of fried chicken and cornbread hit him an instant before Adelaide DeShay looked up from scribbling on a notepad at the hostess stand. She sent him a welcoming smile. “Hey, West. Want
