Page 37 of With a Grain of Salt

"Should I just take you home?"

I shake my head, declining the offer immediately. That would leave me with no car to pick Larkin up in the morning. It would make me have to ask another favor of someone else, and this is already hard enough.

With a frustrated sigh, he steps up and lifts the hood.

"It has something to do with the battery cable or something," I explain, once he's bent over the motor. "At least that's whatthe guy told me at the grocery store last week."

"This has happened before?" he asks, a hint of irritation in his tone.

"Yes," I answer, not going into full detail that it has happened more than once before. I imagine it would only piss him off more because I've somehow made it his problem now.

He cusses when his hand slips, and I hate the sight of blood on his knuckles when he pulls it up to inspect.

"Why don't you have a fucking dependable car?" he growls as he leans back over it again.

I can tell he's talking more to himself than to me, but I'm seconds away from clawing the man's eyes out. Walking home in the dark is sounding more and more appealing right now.

"Maybe you have the luxury of buying a new car, but I don't. Check your small-town, everybody-has-your-back privilege, asshole," I growl.

He stands, the lights on the side of the wall I'm parked near glinting off his face. "Maybe you should've been more responsible with Hux's payout."

My jaw literally hangs open. "Are you serious?"

He shrugs his shoulders before bending back down to inspect my motor. I fight the urge to slam the damn hood down on his head.

"I don't know if you know anything about kids, but they aren't exactly cheap. I know you're chock full of opinions, but it's none of your damn business what I did with that money. Besides, twelve grand doesn't go very fucking far."

"Twelve? What the hell are you talking about? Twelve wouldn't get you very far but that four hundred thousand could've gone a long way. Maybe a car built in this century?"

"Four hundred? Have you lost your mind?"

He stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, and the grease left behind on them is just one more thing to feel guilty about.

"The SGLI payout is four hundred thousand, Claire."

I blink at him. "What?"

"You're serious?"

"What?" I repeat, the threat of tears burning the backs of my eyes.

"Claire," he says, taking a step closer to me, but he freezes when I hold my hand up and take a step away from him. "You don't have a damn clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

"I got twelve," I whisper.

"You need to get an attorney because you might have money waiting for you."

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I know better than to let any form of hope climb inside of me. It's just not how my life ever plays out.

"Crank your car, Claire, since you're in such a hurry to get away from me."

Guilt swims inside of me. Instead of arguing, I listen to him, grateful when I put the key in and turn it, the car starts. He closes the hood and walks away before I can even thank him for helping me.

Maybe if I weren't so shocked by what happened between the two of us, combined with the bomb he just dropped on my life, I might've had more manners. Instead of climbing out of my car and following him to his truck, I close the car door and drive out of the parking lot.

I hate the emptiness of my house when I get there, and I don't even bother turning on the lights in the bathroom before stripping and climbing into the shower.

Every second I wash his touch from my skin, I can't stop thinking about the way we came together tonight. It was perfect. At least for me anyway. Then his words infiltrate, and by the time I climb out, dry off, and get pajamas on, I can't resist the urge to look up payout benefits for deceased veterans.

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