Page 53 of A Stop in Time

“Workin’, huh?” His tone holds a healthy dose of disbelief. “You’ve been workin’ here the entire mornin’?”

If only my glare could incinerate him on the spot.

I fire back sarcastically, “No, of course not. I always start off my Saturday morning by working the corner of Main Street and Del Prado. It’s hard work fucking men, which reminds me.” I practically spit out the words. “You owe me for last night.”

Gaze flinty, he looks like he’s grinding his molars. “Bullshit.”

He brings his face closer, the tip of his nose grazing mine, and the simple contact incites an onslaught of goose bumps along my arms. His minty breath dances along my skin, and my body hums with anticipation, as if silently pleading for him to put his mouth on me.

Shit. What the hell is wrong with me?

I wet my lips subconsciously, and his eyes instantly drop to my mouth. An indecipherable emotion flickers across his face but disappears before I can identify it. The cut of his mouth and cheeks seems harsher now than before, bathing him in a sharper edginess.

“Cut the bullshit and tell me the truth.”

A hot burn of rage courses through my veins as my steely gaze clashes with his. “Let’s get something straight here, Danny—”

“It’s Daniel.” He grits out the words, flinging them at me with fury.

“Don’t care. You came here, to my place of business, demanding I tell you what I’ve been doing. Just because we fucked last night doesn’t give you any right to make demands on me. You got that?”

I tip my head, gesturing to his beat-up vehicle. “You came here with a car that looks like it’s been in a fucking war zone, and it sure as hell wasn’t looking like that last night.”

My voice rises as anger floods my bloodstream. “Am I supposed to believe you’re not bringing some gang shit to my goddamn front door?” I refuse to look away, holding his defiant stare with my own.

I sense it rather than witness it—the tense quality blanketing him eases the tiniest bit. “Somebody shot up my motel room and car.”

He hasn’t exactly apologized for coming at me the way he did, but he’s at least taken his aggressive tone down a few notches on the assholery scale.

“Yeah, I got that much.” The outer edges of his mouth tense at my flippant response, but I don’t give a shit. “And you automatically assumed the scarred woman you fucked had something to do with it?”

Last night, he’d been the first man to treat me like I was special and actually beautiful. Now, he’s treating me like a fucking freak, like a monster, just like the other assholes do. Goddamn him for making me think he was different. That he saw me differently.

His glare is so searing, it’s a wonder it hasn’t incinerated my flesh. After what seems like an eternity, he lowers his gun and shoves it in his holster. He pulls something from his pocket and holds up a piece of cardstock pinched between two of his fingers.

My business card.

“Somebody gave me this. Said if I wanted to know about my sister’s death, I needed to head here.”

A fissure of alarm races through me, and I stare at him like he’s fucking crazy. Because, right now, I’m convinced he is.

My fingers twitch, but it’s still no use with how he’s pinned my hands awkwardly above my head. “Get the fuck off my property.” I raise my leg, attempting to kick at him somehow, but he’s too quick and slams his entire body against mine once again.

“Why would somebody tell me this?” His tone is so icy, it threatens to turn this place into Antarctica.

“I don’t really give a fuck. All I know is, a normal person wouldn’t just come at me like a fucking psycho with accusations and a damn gun.” I grit my teeth. “I won’t say it again. Get. The fuck. Off my property.”

“You’re not really in the position to be makin’ demands.”

Goddamn him. I struggle against his hold, wishing like hell I could stop everything and shove him back in his car, drive him back to his motel, and drop him there before I leave and start time again.

It pisses me off that he doesn’t show any real sign of exertion against my struggles aside from the irritation flaring in his gaze.

His voice is a low rumble. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep that up.”

“Says the asshole who just had a gun shoved beneath my chin,” I fire back.

His mouth parts, no doubt to spout off something else that’ll piss me off even more, when a familiar vehicle pulls into the driveway and starts heading toward us.

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