Page 57 of Hidden Resolution
A minute into her hike home, and she was cursing her stupidity. She should’ve worn a heavier jacket. The full thirty-minute walk wouldn’t kill her, but by the time she arrived, she’d be a fucking Popsicle.
A car door slammed behind her.
Mason would either chase her down or leave her there to stew in it. When no footsteps followed, her stomach sank and her romantic fantasies fled. Stewing it was.
No matter how many times she told herself she wouldn’t cry, her body refused to behave. Scalding tears spilled over her chilled cheeks, and she angrily swiped them away. No way was the bastard going to be the reason she turned into a red-nosed, puffy-eyed mess. Not if anyone was around to see.
But of course, someone was.
From nowhere, a rock-solid body collided with hers, knocking her to the ground. Her purse vanished from her shoulder, ripped away as her body hit the pavement. Her right arm took the brunt of the fall, and pain shot through it as she scrambled to her feet. With a battle cry, she gave chase, but her boots skidded across the icy sidewalk, sending her sprawling again.
Tires squealed.
An instant later, Mason’s car screeched to a hard stop beside her.
He jumped out, wild-eyed. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, ignoring the burn in her shoulder, and waved him off.
“Go get that rat bastard and run him over, will ya?” she ordered.
His grin was sharp and deadly. Diving back into the car, he peeled off in pursuit.
As soon as he was gone, she berated herself for sending him after the thief. Her hip throbbed like hell, and a single step toward the store was a reminder of how hard the fucking ground had been. She was brutally cold, bruised, and emotionally wrecked. The perfect trifecta of miserable.
Ten more steps reminded her she didn’t have a wallet to cover the cost of a ride. The five after brought frustrated tears to her eyes again. Six additional steps, and she was thoroughly pissed, prepared to murder whoever was making her life a living hell.
At last, the store came into view.
She was roughly twelve feet from the doors when Mason pulled up beside her, a lingering fury in his gaze.
“The guy must’ve had a car waiting,” he said with an annoyed shake of his head. “I’ve called the police, and they should be here soon. Come get warm.”
The thought of those heated leather seats wrapped around her was tempting and caused her to waver.
But if she got in his car, she’d be unable to sever the tie.
“Thanks, but I’ll wait inside.”
He scoffed and held the door open. “Don’t be ridiculous, Shonda. Get in the car.”
His assumed compliance triggered her.
“Ridiculous?Ridiculous?”
So what if her screeching portrayed her as mentally unstable? She had every right to be angry.
“You know what’sridiculous,Mason? You, treating women like they have cooties if you spend more than twenty-fourconsecutive hours together. Anotherridiculousthing might be your gamophobia.”
“What the hell is gamophobia?” he snapped as if she’d accused him of murder.
“Look it up, asshole.”
She stormed inside and made a beeline for the service desk.
“Shonda Grant, right?” the man behind the counter asked, circling around to her side.
Recognition hit as she registered the sandy-brown hair, azure eyes, and a ready smile.
