Page 16 of Property of Azrael

“Yes, but this is more than just a sympathetic gesture, Azrael. You’re taking me, a complete stranger, to Houston, simply out of the goodness of your heart. Call me cynical, but I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Any decent human being would never have left you out there alone in a broken-down car in the middle of a storm.”

“I’m not sure there’s many decent people out in the world anymore.” The truth of the matter is, dozens of cars drove right by me. He and his club were the only ones who stopped to offer me help.

“There aren’t, but I couldn’t just ride away.” His gaze slides from mine to the floor. There’s more there. Something he’s not saying.

“Can I ask you something personal?” My voice wavers with uncertainty. If I’m going to sleep… I mean, share a bed with this man. I need to do it with a clean conscience. When he gives a nod to go ahead, I blurt out, “Are you married?”

Azrael bursts into laughter.

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know it’s not,” he gasps out. “You’re worried that by sharing a bed with me tonight, that you’re breaking some moral woman’s code, aren’t you?”

“Stop laughing,” I groan, but he doesn’t stop. In fact, it only grows louder, and he grabs his stomach the longer it goes on. It’s so annoying. I’m trying to be a decent human being, and the asshole is throwing it back in my face.

“Fuck, you’re adorable.”

I sneer at him. “Don’t call me that. I will not be accused of being a side chick. If you have someone at home, I’d rather take my chances with the lobby couch.”

“Hallie, you’re staying right here. I’m not married or dating at this moment. Happy?”

I nod, feeling relieved that I will not be causing him any issues. The last thing I want to do is to repay his kindness with more drama. I start to follow it up with another qualifying question, but he presses a rough, callused finger to my lips to stop me.

“Has anyone ever told you that you over-analyze everything?”

I snort. “All the time.” My mom used to tell me at a young age that I could figure a way out of any situation if given time to think about it. But by that logic, I wouldn’t be here with Azrael now. “Anxiety and over-analyzing is my thing.”

“What do you do for a living?” he inquires.

“I work in medical billing for a local hospital.”

“Medical billing, huh? That’s not what I would’ve guessed.”

“Not the most exciting job, I know, but it pays most of my bills and keeps food in my belly. Plus, I get to work from home, so that helps keep my mileage low.”

Not low enough that Wanda could make the trip down here, but she’s an old car.

“Speaking of food, are you hungry?”

“Starving,” I admit. With Wanda’s temperamental nature, I had stopped a little outside of gas and bathroom breaks, careful to leave her running to avoid the disaster that happened anyway, despite my preventative measures. “And dinner’s on me, remember?”

“We’ll see about that.” He grabs his phone and types. “Looks like our options are pizza, pizza, or pizza.”

“Ooh, tough call. I guess we’ll go with pizza. I like just about every topping. Hawaiian is my favorite.”

He gives me an incredulous look. “Hawaiian isn’t pizza.”

“Gawd,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “You’re one of those people who protest pineapple on a pizza.”

Over the last couple of years, the anti-pineapple pizza community has become more outspoken on social media. On National Pizza Day, I posted one photo of the Hawaiian pizza I’d picked up for lunch, and the hate I got was strong. Dozens of mean-spirited comments about how disgusting it was, and that I was crazy for calling it a pizza.

“Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza.”

“By that logic, I guess you don’t like tomato sauce, because technically, it’s a fruit, not a vegetable.”

Gazing over at me, he fires back, “That’s your argument? Pizza should have four things: crust, sauce, meat, and cheese.” He lists them off with a raise of a finger for each of his criteria. “That’s it. I’m simply a purist. I don’t need some leafy green or fancy drizzle of some billion-year-old aged balsamic vinegar for a pizza to be good.”

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