Page 27 of The Confidentiality Clause
“That’s not what I meant.” He sighs, and I catch his hand tousling his hair as we drive beneath a street light. “You’re definitely not the fragile-flower type.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, feeling on edge now.
“Hey, you’re the one who said it,” he defends himself. “I can’t win here. You’re not fragile like a flower or some porcelain doll. You’re fragile like a nuclear reactor. One wrong move and the entire world is at your mercy.”
I laugh. My nerves begin to dissipate. “I like that.”
“You would,” he grumbles.
I reach over and shove his shoulder.
“You’re too stressed all the time, Carolina. I’d tell you if you were bothering me. Probably by kicking you.”
He snorts. “Fair enough. So, you’re not going to call Sutton? Shaw would definitely take her side and probably punch me. I’ve fought him before, and I don’t want to go through that again.”
I shake my head. “I keep my word. I’m not calling Sutton. Your face is safe.”
“Good, women everywhere would be disappointed if Shaw marred it.”
“They’re already disappointed when you open your mouth. Maybe him breaking your jaw would help your dating life.”
“You’ve got a sick sense of humor, Duke.”
I pull into a parking spot in front of the ice cream shop. “What can I say? You bring out the worst in me.”
Chapter thirteen
Brock Jones
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say in a flat voice.
Ariel laughs as we enter Mountain Encounters. “You don’t like it?”
I shoot her a glare. “The entire place is plaid. This is a store for lumberjacks.”
There’s anentire wallof flannel shirts. The racks are filled with cargo shorts and pants in the ugliest colors. I walk further into the store and my lip curls in disgust.
“Don’t be such a prima donna,” Ariel says from behind me. “You can get through a weekend with what’s in here.”
“I’m not a prima donna,” I growl. “But I’m also not the Bounty paper towel guy. Is there really no other store we can go to?”
I turn to face her. She’s browsing a rack of t-shirts with phrases likeBig Foot Is My Best FriendandThe Forest Is Not Your Gift Shopon them.
“There are a few boutiques on the strip, but they closed at six, and they’re mostly geared toward women. Just buy a t-shirt or two and some pants.”
“Next time you abduct me, could you rob my house too? So I can at least have my clothes.”
She smiles and tilts her head. “Aw, are you already looking forward to the next time? How sweet.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m going to try to find something in a solid color.”
“Have fun!”
“Not likely.”
I storm off in the opposite direction toward a section labeled hiking gear. Surely they’ll have some exercise-style clothing somewhere. I can live with sweatpants or shorts. But the idea of trading my suit for something with twenty pockets is liable to make me break out in hives.
A gangly teenager finds me combing through a t-shirt rack, looking for something in a color not of the neon variety.
