Page 103 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Well, how the tables have turned.” There’s that cocky grin I want to slap off his face. “From sharp-tongued confidence to sharp-edged defense.”
I throw the bag back at him.
It hits his chest, and the pressure splits it wide open. Chips explode from the torn seam. They rain down and scatter over the floor. The sweet, smoky scent of hickory barbecue clings to the air.
His head drops, eyes flicking down to the broken pieces around his boots. He takes a small, deliberate step back, distancing himself from the mess.
His amused brown eyes find mine. “You’re paying for those now.”
I bite the inside of my mouth until I taste blood.
“They’re coming back to pick me up,” I say.
He shrugs. “I suppose if they don’t, you can always walk or hitchhike.”
He takes one large step over the pile of chips and stalks past me, his shoulder brushing roughly against mine.
My fingers twitch, itching to throw the nearest thing at him. Maybe something a little harder than chips, like this bottle of water, or a can of corn.
He heads for the counter, grabbing a new bag of chips, swiping a pack of gum, and picking up a soda, along with anything else that catches his eye.
I juggle my stuff into one arm and reach my free hand into the back pocket of my shorts for my cell phone.
All I find is a map.
I try the next pocket. Empty.
Noooo.
The word is so close to tearing out of my chest, right here, in the middle of this crappy little convenience store that reeks of an overpowering air freshener trying to cover up burnt coffee and the stench from the bathroom.
Fuuuuck.
I left my phone in the RV.
I shove the stuff I’ve collected on a shelf and wedge myself beside a smug Wilde and a metal rack of chocolate bars. He doesn’t even give me an inch of space. And I don’t know why he’s being so smug. Four hours trapped with me will drive us both insane or to murder.
I know that.
He knows that.
We both know that.
Elbows planted on the countertop, I try to mask the growing frustration in my chest and do my best to stay composed as I address the employee.
“I need to borrow your phone.”
The teenager behind the counter gives me a bored glance.
“Her Mama taught her manners; she’s just choosy about who she uses them with.” Hart tosses a few bills on the counter.
My eyes struggle to look at him. “Just, shut up.”
“See? Choosy.”
“Can you not?” The thought of slapping him again flickers through my mind.
He collects his purchases. “Keep the change. Oh, and she’s paying for the chips she dumped on the floor.” He leans over the counter, closer to the teen. “I’d make her clean it up, too. I reckon she has some time to kill before her ride realizes they forgot her.”
