Page 43 of Savage Hearts
I get that there’s going to be blowback on Declan for whatever murdery stuff he did to avenge Diego, and I don’t think it’s fair.
“But Declan has an excuse. He really thought Diego was dead. There was a body and everything!”
Spider chuckles darkly. “Tell that to the rest of the families.”
“Wow. I’m glad you can be so nonchalant about it. I think I’d be having a heart attack.”
He shrugs. “It’s the life. Never a dull moment. Dodging death keeps a man young.” He pauses. “What’s that screwy face for?”
“What you just said is probably the most macho thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not sure it was a compliment. Oh, look, a bookstore! Can we go in there?”
I point at an adorable little shop we’re passing by. The façade is painted bright blue. Potted red geraniums line the big bay window in front. A few bicycles are parked outside beside a row of small café tables. People sip coffees and chat in the morning sun.
“Your wish is my command,” says Spider, smiling. He makes a right turn, taking us around the block.
“In that case, I wish for season tickets to the 49ers.”
Spider makes a retching noise. “Ugh. American football.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You Yanks wear too many bloody safety pads. Wankers. And the helmets!” He scoffs. “To cover your dainty eejit brains.”
“Ah. I see where this is going. You’re about to extol the manly virtues of rugby, right?”
He glances at me, grinning, before pulling into a parking spot. “Extol?”
I say mildly, “Oh, shut up.”
As soon as Spider turns off the SUV’s engine, I open the door and hop out, collecting my laptop. When I turn around, he’s standing right in front of me.
Scowling.
Taken aback, I say, “What?”
He says crossly, “You’re supposed to let me open the door and help you out, lass.”
“Why? Do I look like I normally have trouble exiting vehicles?”
“No, because I’m a man and you’re a woman.”
When I only stand there staring at him with my face scrunched up, he adds, “Also, I’m working. It’s my job.”
“You should’ve started with that.”
“Why?”
“Because then I wouldn’t suspect that you have old-fashioned, inflexible ideas about gender roles.”
He chuckles. “Idohave old-fashioned, inflexible ideas about gender roles. But trust me when I say that they’re all to your benefit. Now, will you let me open the door to the bloody bookshop for you, or will your wee feminist ego insist we arm wrestle over it?”
I lift my nose in the air and sniff. “I wouldn’t arm wrestle you.”
I was trying to be snooty and dismissive, but he seizes the opportunity of my refusal to make a point.
