Page 48 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“Great, where are your keys?”
“I’ll drive.” He set his mug on the table and edged past her toward the entryway, removing his keys from his pocket and exiting the house.
Shea released a puff of frustrated air and closed her eyes, seeking internal fortitude and patience. “Why?” She moaned to herself and then followed Pete out the door.
He was already in his truck and waiting when she reached for the passenger door. She didn’t get in but waited until Pete looked at her.
“Pete, I want to do this by myself.”
“I know” was all he said.
“Then can I take your truck?” Shea pressed.
Pete twisted in his seat to give her a direct look as she stood on the ground with the passenger door open. “No. I’m going with you.” There was an edge to his voice that made her bristle.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Seriously.” Pete’s eyes took on a steely glint. “I don’t care how much you don’t like my company, Shea, I’m not messing around with your safety.”
She snorted. “No one is trying to kill me, Pete.”
“A busted windshield?” he countered.
“Vandalism.”
“Fake blood on the window and a creeper outside?” he shot back.
“A tourist being stupid.” Shea used the police’s reasoning.
“A man suspiciously dying in the lighthouse.” Pete made it into a statement.
“Fifteen years ago.” Shea had the distinct feeling she was losing this battle.
“A ghost with a vendetta against anyone who lives in the lighthouse.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Shea half laughed in exasperation and half glared at him. “Pete! You don’t believe in ghosts.”
“No, and I don’t believe in coincidences, and I don’t believe in leaving you hanging out to dry.”
“You’re not,” Shea reassured her husband, at the same time realizing that one thing was certain about Pete. He could always be counted on. He was predictable. A creature of habit. But that included being there when she needed him—if not emotionally, at least physically. “Iwantto be left alone. It’s why I came here in the first place.”
“To get away from me,” Pete added, yet there was no hurt in his voice or expression.
Shea hesitated. They’d never had a frank discussion about their dying relationship. She’d just been really good at expressing herself when it came to what she wasn’t happy with, and Pete was really good at not expressing that he cared.
“Pete—”
“Get in, Shea.” He patted the seat next to him in a friendly gesture. “You may not like me here, but I don’t like you here alone. So we’re at an impasse.”
“You’re acting like I can’t take care of myself.” Shea climbed into the cab of the truck.
“Why do women think when a man wants to protect them, they’re assuming the man thinks the woman isn’t tough?”
Shea had no answer to that, so she shut the door as Pete fired up the truck.
“Where are we going?” he asked as he shifted the vehicle into reverse.
Shea drew a steadying breath. She wanted to rant at him, but at the same time, a piece of her melted as she stared straight ahead, trying to figure out how Pete had pieced together a question longer than two words.
