Page 19 of Surrender
“But I don’t want to hear anything about it ever again! You swear?”
“You’ll be rewarded in Heaven.”
She didn’t believe him of course and with good reason. He would tease her until the day she died—hopefully sooner rather than later.
Sophie looked like she needed a paper bag to breathe into. But Keefe knew how to calm his sister down. “I’ve got your favorite coffee, blueberry pancakes, and fresh whipped cream—just for you...” he said in a sing-song tone.
“Chocolate whipped cream?”
And just like that his lion of a sister was magically transformed into a cute little bunny. “Of course! Nothing but the best for my favorite sister. Now, come on before Ginny gets suspicious.”
Sophie walked ahead and was about to open the door when Keefe stopped her. “Oh, and Soph?”
“What?”
“I like redheads—but not too skinny. I like a little something to hold onto.”
“EW!”
“And there’s a fruit basket in it for you if she’s a freak in the sheets.”
“Keefe, goddammit I hate you!” She swatted him and stormed out from the snug.
Chapter 8
Gwen looked at her herself in the mirror. Originally, she had dressed like someone else. But in the end, she decided that the best lies started with the truth so she should just go looking like herself. She wiped her mouth with a napkin blotting off more lipstick. There that was much better. Just because she was going to lie about her identity didn’t mean she had to lie altogether.
Gwen blew out a curse as she eased off the accelerator, her tires crunching along what could only generously be called a road. It was narrow enough to induce mild panic, with barely enough room for one car, let alone two. The hedgerows loomed like green walls on either side, and her GPS had long since stopped pretending she was on anything paved. And as if that weren’t enough, she’d already managed to get herself lost.
Not to mention the twists—God, the twists. She couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead at any given time.
She’d just turned off what a local farmer had called a shortcut. If she could turn around and find him, she would—just so she could slap him. This was no shortcut. It was a winding, rutted sliver of road that could barely accommodate a wheelbarrow. At one point, the incline had been so steep she couldn’t even see over the dashboard.
Now, if that doesn’t take a few years off your life, nothing will.
Shortcut my ass!
She certainly wasn’t expecting to follow the bend in the road and nearly end up straight up a tractor’s backside.
And not just any tractor. Oh no. This one looked like it had been dragged out of retirement with a crowbar and a lot of prayer. Rust coated the entire thing like it was trying to return to the earth and one of the huge rear wheels wobbled with every rotation, rattling so violently that she half expected it to roll off and bounce right over her roof!
Just then the engine let out a moan that sounded suspiciously like a death rattle before blowing a puff of black smoke and veering off into a field.
Well, that wasn’t so bad. If being stuck behind a wobbly, slow, filthy tractor was the worst thing to happen today, she could survive it.
Then she rounded the next bend—and had to slam the brakes again.
Coming toward her was an old Land Rover, the kind built like a tank and wide enough to take up the entire road. Its blue paint was dull and dented and there was some kind of bent metal bracket sticking out from the front. The man behind the wheel—a weathered local with a cigarette dangling from his lips and the expression of someone who had been driving these roads since birth—didn’t slow down. He could have pulled over into the small pull off created for moments like this but he didn’t. He didn’t even blink. Just gave a lazy wave, eyes fixed straight ahead like she wasn’t even there.
Gwen pulled as far into the hedgerow as possible as he passed at a crawl, with only nano-millimeters to spare. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and then… Tick.
The Land Rover’s rusted side mirror clipped hers.
“Kiss my mirror why don’t you! Honestly!” Gwen shouted, twisting in her seat as the rust bucket lumbered on like it hadn’t just committed vehicular assault.
First a fake shortcut, then a death-trap tractor, now this. Gwen dragged a hand down her face. At this rate she would need a pint, a shot, and possibly therapy.
She crept forward again, muttering every swear word she knew and inventing a few new ones.
