Page 10 of Hitched to the Mountain Man
"We should go," I tell Savannah, keeping my voice steady. "Now."
She nods, grabbing her purse from behind the counter. "Sylvie, cover for me?"
"Are you kidding? And miss the show?" Sylvie grins. "But yes, I'll tell Brian you had a family emergency."
I guide Savannah toward the door with my hand at the small of her back, hyperaware of every inch where our bodies connect. We make it to the parking lot just as the first patrol car rounds the corner, lights flashing.
"My bike or your car?" I ask.
"My car. He's less likely to shoot you in front of witnesses." She points to a sensible blue Honda parked near the back before fishing the keys from her purse.
"I'll drive.” I take the keys from her shaking hand.
She doesn't argue, sliding into the passenger seat while I adjust the driver's seat to accommodate my frame. The engine roars to life just as Sheriff Parker's cruiser screeches into the parking lot.
"Where to?" I ask, backing out quickly.
"My place. Actually, no, your place." She fastens her seatbelt. "We should talk before facing him and he’ll probably check my place first."
I nod and pull onto Main Street, driving at exactly the speed limit. The last thing we need is to give Parker a legitimate reason to pull us over.
"You okay?" I glance at her as we stop at a red light. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing quick. She looks like a woman running from a killer, not a daughter avoiding her father.
"I'm fine." She twists the ring on her finger, a nervous habit I've already noticed. "Just wondering if this was a mistake."
My chest tightens. "Having second thoughts already?"
"No." She looks up, surprising me with the certainty in her voice. "Not about the arrangement. Just about how we're handling my father."
"We can't avoid him forever."
"I know." She sighs. "I just wanted time to explain properly. On my terms."
"Sometimes life doesn't give us what we want." I turn onto the road leading to my property on the edge of town. "Sometimes we have to make the best of what we get."
She studies my profile. "You sound like you've had practice."
More than she knows. Prison teaches you real quick that control is an illusion. That adaptability is survival.
"I've had my share of adjustments." I pull into the gravel driveway of my house, cutting the engine. "Welcome to my humble abode."
Savannah looks up at the small house with obvious surprise. "This is where you live?"
I follow her gaze, trying to see my home through her eyes. It's nothing special. A craftsman style cottage I've slowly restored over the past two years. The porch needs painting, and the garden has more weeds than flowers, but the bones are good.
"Not up to the sheriff's daughter's standards?" I can't keep the defensive edge from my voice.
"No, I mean, yes." She flushes. "It's beautiful. Just unexpected. I thought you lived above your workshop."
The assumption stings even though it's reasonable. "I'm not quite the caveman your father makes me out to be."
"I never thought you were." She reaches for my hand, the gesture surprisingly natural. "I'm sorry if I sounded judgmental. Your home is lovely."
Her apology soothes the wounded part of me that still bristles at people's assumptions. "Let's go inside. You can judge my interior design skills next."
That draws a genuine laugh from her as we climb out of the car. I lead her up the porch steps, uncomfortably aware that this is the first time I've brought a woman to my home since buying it. The realization makes this feel more intimate than it should.
Inside, the small living room opens to a kitchen with a breakfast bar. Nothing fancy, but clean and functional with personal touches throughout. Metal sculptures I've created. Books on engineering and architecture. Plants thriving on every windowsill.
