Page 46 of The Prodigal

They didn’t have any chairs.

Two hours later, Remington’s stomach growls for the fourth time.

“We should stop. You’re hungry.”

His tone doesn’t carry the same edge when he’s tired. “Are you my nutritionist or research assistant? Because you seem confused.”

I can see the fatigue in the way his shoulders sag against the seat. He’s tired, and he’s hungry. And we all know how shitty Remington can act when he needs a snack and a nap. So, I don’t take his words personally.

“I’m your partner—and I’m hungry, too.”

He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something epically crappy, but then closes it. “Can you wait? There’s a motel and diner twenty miles ahead.”

So he does intend to stop? That’s a good sign. “Sure. I can wait.”

I only hope he can, too. He seems awfully tired all of a sudden. “This is a nice car,” I say, when silence descends on us. “What kind is it?”

A tiny quirk hitches his lip. “You trying to make small talk, love? Why not ask me about the weather instead? It seems a little more in your wheelhouse.”

And…he’s back.

“Well, Mr. Rude, I find the weather boring.” I admit, holding back the smile that’s forming. “I also find talking about your old-ass car boring, too, but I don’t want to die when you fall asleep at the wheel.”

I jump when he barks out a laugh. “Don’t get me hard, Eve. Brutal honesty just so happens to be my love language.”

The fucker makes me smile. “Well, there’s no sense in you thinking I actually care about your car when I don’t.”

He nods, seemingly more awake. “Are you saying you don’t care about cars in general or just ‘old-ass’ cars?”

Shifting, I lean forward, getting a closer look at the dashboard. “I’ve just never understood the fascination guys have with their cars.” I shrug. “To me, a car is just a way to get you from one place to another.”

“But you think I have a fascination with mine?” He cocks a brow.

“Well, yeah.” I wave my hand at the dash. “Obviously, this is an old car, but you’ve had it completely restored so that it looks brand new.”

“And that proves I’m fascinated with it?”

The way he asks the question gives me pause. Is there another reason he loves this car?

“You also won’t let me drive it.”

This time, he nearly doubles over with laughter. “Just because I don’t want a brain injury while you’re too busy playing I spy instead of paying attention to the road doesn’t prove my devotion to my car. It proves I have common sense.”

Okay, he has a point there. I have played I spy more than necessary, but I was bored. There’s only so much you can do in the car. “So, you just bought this car totally restored?”

He takes a moment, probably considering if this is a good place to toss me out, and sighs. “No. I didn’t buy it. The car was a gift.”

“From your dad?”

His eyes slide to the mirror—we’re wading into personal territory here. “From Vance—my…”

I know that name. “Your uncle? Dr. Vance Potter?”

He nods. “Yeah. He gifted it to me on my eighteenth birthday.”

For a moment, all he does is stare out the windshield, seemingly deep in thought. “It was the first gift I’d ever received.”

I swear my heart stops. This car was his three-piece luggage set. “It’s a very generous gift.”

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