Page 15 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“Two people with a common enemy. Seems like we’re better off comparing notes than holding each other at gunpoint,” he said, and it was right then I noticed he’d managed to slide his own gun out and place it on his leg when I’d been distracted by him looking at me.

“Fine,” I said, sighing. “But we’ll do it in a public place.”

“Got any ideas?” he asked.

“M&C Diner on 125th,” I said as my stomach let out another grumble, reminding me that while I’d watched Keith eat and had fed the dog, I’d yet to put anything in my stomach but caffeine and a few bites of food cart hotdog.

“Alright,” he agreed, but he kept his gun trained on me.

I couldn’t blame him.

I had mine trained on him until he cut the engine and we both climbed out of the truck in unison.

“Watch it,” I snarled at a delivery biker as I reached to grab the back of the driver’s suit jacket, yanking him back a step so he didn’t get collided with. “Asshole!” I called as he peddled away without a care.

The driver looked down at me with stormy blue eyes, brows drawn together.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head, then reached for the door.

“Nothing.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Anthony

The diner was a hole in the wall.

But, in my experience, the best food always came out of places with linoleum so ancient that half the color was worn away, hideous red vinyl booths, and artwork on the wall that was bleached from the years of the sun beating on it.

My little carjacker walked in ahead of me, hood still up, nodding her chin at the man standing in the kitchen window.

“Seat yourself,” he called, prompting her to grab two menus and start walking down the short aisle of tables, choosing the one in the corner. That, I noted, allowed her to see both the front and the side doors, where our waitress was standing smoking.

It wasn’t until I slid into the booth that she did the same, then reached up to push the hoodie off her head.

And, fuck.

She was gorgeous.

She had an unexpectedly delicate face, almost pixie-like, with small bones, a slightly upturned nose, and warm brown eyes that were fucking boring into me.

“You look familiar,” she said, gaze moving over my features.

“Wish I could say the same,” I said, glancing over the menu because I was pretty sure I’d be a creep just staring at her if I didn’t distract myself.

Even focused elsewhere, I caught the movement as she reached back, removing a claw clip from her hair, and shaking the long, silky dark strands loose to frame her face in wavy layers.

And, fuck me, her hair smelled like fucking strawberries. I could smell it clear across the table.

“Can I get you something to drink?” our raspy-voiced waitress asked as she walked toward the table, bringing a cloud of cigarette scent with her that choked out the strawberry.

“Coffee, please,” she said.

“Milk or cream?”

“Neither,” she said and I tried not to feel awkward about getting the cream with mine.

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