Page 8 of Bone Dust

“Is that an invitation?” She perks, flippantly. “I thought you gave that up?”

The curl of his lip is barely visible beneath his thick mustache. “I like my Sundays off, Savannah. It’s a good day for reflection, don’t you think? For some of us, it helps to plan our week. You know; to do a better job and be a better person than we were the week before—as the good Lord intended.”

The verbal sparring is intense and her forehead wrinkles. She levels him with the smile of an evil queen.

“Far be it from me to ever strive to disappoint the Lord.”

My brow quirks. The effect she has on him with her sugar-sweet, sing-song tone and her wise-ass attitude is pissing me off.

I look from her to him and see a tick of Sam’s jaw. I could swear he’s grinding his teeth. The look in his eyes could flatten her right now. It’s like one a father gives a disobedient child. I note he’s dropped her nickname and, instead, is using her formal name like a whip.

I want to say something, but I bite my tongue. I don’t like her attitude and can feel the small hairs on the back of my neck bristle. Since I’m ignorant of their relationship dynamic, I back off.

“My, my. That’s good to hear, Savannah, seeing how the Lord knows your heart and all.” A twitch curdles the corner of his eye, tainting the remainder of the conversation. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“You absolutely will.” Her tone is as mockingly bright as his is sour. Dismissing him, she turns to me and extends her arm to shake my hand. “Mr. Stanton, it’s been a pleasure. Safe travels.”

Her smug expression makes me angry, but I take her hand with a firm grip. Her fingers are as cold as her attitude and I’m not fond of bourgeois bitches.

“Oh, Ian’s not going anywhere. He lives here.” Sam interjects.

Wide-eyed, she snaps her icy blue eyes back to him. “Excuse me?”

She tries to pull her hand from mine, but I maintain my grip. It has a rebound effect and her gaze pops back to me. “Let go.”

I don’t budge. “Before I do, I’ve got a question: have we met?”

“What?” She answers, clearly annoyed.

“You look slightly familiar but then, there are too many blondes in my past to remember them all.” I reluctantly let go but can’t hide the satisfied grin sneaking up the corners of my mouth. I’m pissing her off. Good.

Her spine stiffens with an artic intensity, and, with narrowed eyes, her blue orbs throw icicle daggers.

“We have.” She punches the words like a death blow.

“I don’t remember you. Want to throw me a bone?”

She instantly attempts to school her expression and I’m amused at her effort. It’s for sure I’ve hit a nerve—which only makes this that much more fun.

She doesn’t answer me. Sam watches the exchange, and the curl of his lip reveals he’s entertained. I’m not sure I have to, but I rein myself in.

“Ms. Grace, I get the feeling you don’t like me very much.”

“Really?” She hikes up a perfectly shaped brow. “Why would you say that?”

“Well, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I detect those knives you’re throwing at me have a story behind them.”

She pauses, studies me, and, with a slight turn of her head, gives me a sanctimonious look. “We met after a concert. The last one you performed.”

“The last one, huh?” I purse my lips and bob my head. “Not one I like to remember but I’ll bet I was a real charmer.”

“You absolutely were.” She deadpans.

“I’m guessing you had a VIP ticket?”

“I did.” A painfully slow tip of her chin affirms her words.

I throw up my hands. “Well, there you go. Mystery solved. Guess I do have a bit of Sherlock in me.” I turn my back to her.

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