Page 70 of Lucas
“You want to carpool? Seriously?”
“Why not?” He shrugs. “Saves on gas. Environmentally friendly. All that jazz.”
I narrow my eyes, sensing the excuse for what it is. He’s worried, my sweet, overprotective husband. It simultaneously irritates and warms me.
“Fine.” I’m not at my best, and I’ll be glad to have him drive the long way, even though I’m not sure how I’ll survive an hour with him in an enclosed space.
“Okay. Let’s go.” He rises and leaves without waiting for me.
What did I do now? I guess nice, caring Lucas’s time is up, and we’re back to grumpy, angry Lucas.
I gather my purse and follow him out, stopping short in the entryway. “What’s this?”
“My car.”
“But this isn’t the Jaguar.”
“No, it’s a Porsche. I’m impressed that you can tell the difference.” He walks to the passenger door and opens it for me.
It amuses me that even though he doesn’t like me, he still opens the door for me. “Where’s the Jag?”
He cocks his head. “Do you have some emotional attachment to it or something?”
“No.” I get in and buckle up.
Lucas circles the car and slides into the driver’s seat. “The Jag’s in the shop.”
Oh, he said something about that yesterday, but I don’t remember what. I wasn’t focused. “What happened to it?”
He shakes his head once. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
“Bullshit,” I retort, worry gnawing at my gut. “What’s going on, Lucas? Talk to me.”
A beat, two, stretches between us, heavy and fraught. Finally, he lets out a low curse and rakes a hand through his hair. “There was an incident.”
My brow furrows as I try to parse his meaning. “What kind of incident?” A thought occurs, sending ice water through my veins. “Oh God, did someone hit it? Was there an accident? Are you okay?”
“No, nothing like that.” He hesitates. “Someone keyed it. Scratched something into the paint.”
I twist to face him. “Who did that? How did they get to your car? Wasn’t it in the office garage? What did they scratch?” I fire questions at him in rapid succession.
His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel, and a vein throbs in his neck. Whatever it is, it’s not some minor, unimportant thing like he’s trying to make me believe. Is someone threatening him? My stomach clenches.
“I’m handling it,” he grits out.
“I get that you’re ‘handling it,’ but that doesn’t answer my question. What was written? We’re married now. If someone is threatening you, they’re threatening me too. I need to know.”
He turns his head to me, his gaze flicking between the road and my face. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Ava. I promise. You’re safe with me. You trust me, don’t you?”
I nod. I may not like him, but I do trust him. How did that happen?
“I want to know what it said.”
“Your turn now,” he says. “That’s what was written.”
A lance of dread pierces my lungs, sharp and cold. “Your turn? I don’t understand. What does that mean?” The phrase sounds ominous.
He shrugs, a jerky rise and fall of one shoulder. “Probably nothing. Just some punk kid causing mischief. I requested the garage security footage, so we’ll learn who’s responsible and put an end to it. In any case, if it is a threat, which isn’t even certain, it seems aimed at me, not you.”
