Page 16 of Married with Mayhem

“And nothing ever will. But for three weeks every summer my dad used to send me and Nico out to Wyoming to visit our cousins. Four boys, all close in age to us. Their father owns a huge ranch. Horseback riding was mandatory.”

Now I’m trying to envision this tribe of western mystery cousins. In my head, they all look like Monte with a cowboy hat. The concept is intriguing.

Meanwhile, my eyes are having trouble behaving. They insist on taking this opportunity to examine Monte’s thick arms at close range. The guy has superhero arms and for once they aren’t covered with a shabby leather jacket.

A sudden and very powerful intrusive thought tells me it’s a great idea to reach out and touch one of those mighty arms to test if it’s as hard as it looks. Good thing I have no hands to spare.

“Why are you clenching my shirt in your fists?” Monte asks.

“Am I?”

Yes, I am. With the way I’m gripping the grey fabric, I’m probably stretching the whole thing out of shape. This is still preferable to losing a battle with my willpower and stroking his muscles like a freak.

“Don’t you trust me?” Monte says. “Look, here’s the car and I haven’t dropped you on the pavement once.”

“I trust you,” I mutter as he gently sets me down. I have to admit, unwrapping my legs from his waist leave me feeling a little breathless.

Monte hands over my backpack and flings open the passenger door of the classic blue Impala. The hinges let out a monstrous screech. “Get in.”

Typically, I always sat in the backseat in his car. “You want me to sit up here?”

He blows out a snort of amusement. “Not your chauffeur anymore, Gamer Girl.”

“Point taken.” I climb in and wince as my bare thighs come into contact with the hot leather seat. It’s not the first time today that I’m wishing I hadn’t chosen to travel the world in a pleated mini skirt. I spread my hoodie out underneath me and smooth the short skirt over my thighs as best I can.

I feel very conspicuous as Monte ducks behind the wheel. He glances at my legs, shakes his head once and clicks his seatbelt closed.

“Go ahead and say it,” I sigh as I wrestle with my own seatbelt. “I know you want to.”

He flicks the ignition key and the engine thunders. “Say what, Sabrina?”

“Make fun of my clothes. You dropped everything and drove all the way out here so I won’t deprive you of your favorite hobby.”

“Hate to break it to you, but there are a few pastimes I enjoy more than judging your wardrobe.”

“So I’ve heard but I’m giving you a free shot so you should take it.”

He rests his forearm on the steering wheel, swivels and gives me a more studied appraisal. I do my best not to fidget under the heat of his gaze. The corner of his mouth quirks up and I wouldn’t be surprised if he guessed my thoughts.

“At least it was easy to spot you in the crowd,” he says.

“I was expecting a more obvious insult. Have you grown soft while I was away?”

“No. It’s actually a relief to see that you still dress like a tacky cartoon character.”

“Ouch. You can stop now.”

“But where are your mouse ears? They have a way of completing any bizarre outfit.”

“I’ve explained to you at least three dozen times that those were cat ears, not mouse ears. But trends change. I didn’t bring them. By the way, who beat you up?”

“I fell down,” he says in a mild tone as he throws the car into reverse.

“Ha! What did the other guy look like?”

A shadow drifts over his face. The fact that he won’t answer says more than words ever could.

I’m under no illusions about who Monte Castelli is.

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