Split(29)

My chest throbs with the force of her small show of affection. God, I’m pathetic.

The door swings open to reveal Jim, the warehouse manager I’ve met a couple times before. “Afternoon, sir. We’re here for the travertine Mr. Jennings ordered?”

“Oh, sure thing, Lucas.” He waves us inside. “Come on in. I’ll get it on the forklift.”

She aims an annoyed glare over her shoulder at me, and just like when we were playing Would You Rather, that strange tingly feeling in my face has me grinning so wide my teeth get cold.

Then something amazing happens. I watch as her gaze slides to my mouth and the irritation in her expression softens and turns into a brilliant smile. A tiny flush hits her cheeks, a kiss of pink against her olive skin. The myriad of emotions that play so openly across her face is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Staying neutral around this woman is proving harder than I thought.

“If you want to check this out . . .” The man’s voice jerks my gaze from Shyann, and he motions to the pallets stacked on top of each other, piled high with beige and dark brown marbled travertine tile. “Make sure this fulfills the order.”

Shyann heads over with her purchase order and makes quick work of counting and referencing the slip. “It’s all here.”

Jim slaps the stack. “’Kay, let’s get ’er loaded.”

Thirty minutes later we’re pulling away with several hundred pounds of tile strapped tightly to the flatbed.

“I don’t get it,” Shyann mumbles.

“What?”

“Why my dad insisted I come along. I mean, you had it totally handled out there.”

I shrug but don’t offer any opinions on the issue. I was equally shocked when I realized Mr. Jennings was sending her with me. I mean, he knows nothing about me, my past, what I’ve done. If he did, he’d never trust me around his daughter. Most likely he’d gather the townspeople and run me out with pitchforks. Which is why I need to keep my mouth shut and my head down in order to keep what little I’ve managed to attain.

“I’d kill for a green chili fry bread taco.” She turns those piercing blue eyes toward me so quickly it sends a lock of her shining black hair over her eye. “You hungry?”

My stomach twists, a combination of hunger and fear, but I nod.

“Do you like Native American food?”

“Never had it.”

“You wanna try some?” Her expression lights with excitement.

I tend to stay away from food that’s prepared for me and stick to what’s bland and safe, but I fear saying no will wipe that look off her face, and I kinda like it there.

I nod.

“There’s a great place we can stop on our way out of town. I used to go every chance I could, which was only when Trevor and I were covering stories in the Valley. They make the best—”

“Who’s Trevor?” The question flies from my lips before I can think better of it.

She purses her lips. “Eh . . . he’s no one really. Coworker. Ex coworker.”

My skin suddenly feels too tight as I consider her spending time with this man Trevor. It’s unjustified and completely ridiculous; a beautiful woman like her probably spends time with a lot of guys. It’s not my concern.

She gives me directions that take us to a tiny shack of a place just off the highway. Its bright blue paint is chipped in places as the sign on top reads THE FRY HOUSE, but the F is merely an outline of the letter that is no longer there. Its parking lot is nothing more than a flat spot of dirt and there are a few old wooden picnic benches scattered around the simple structure.

Fragrant spices fill the air along with the hint of fry oil and sweet dough. My mouth waters and not necessarily in a good way.

“Don’t freak out. It looks shady, but it’s safe. I promise.” Shyann lifts an eyebrow as we make our way to the single window of the building. “Do you trust me?”

I don’t trust anyone. “Not really.”

She bursts into laughter and I feel the sound in my bones. “I’ll order lunch. You find us a spot in the shade.” With a flick of her wrist, she shoos me toward a picnic bench that happens to be under the shadow of a large paloverde tree.

I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to shake off this woman’s effect as I sit on the tabletop with my feet on the bench. The light, tinkling sound of Shyann’s voice carries toward me on the breeze and it does little to calm my nerves. I peruse my surroundings for a diversion.

Four men dressed in sweat-stained and dirt-covered clothes speak Spanish and eat like they’ve worked a long day in the sun. It looks like they’re eating tacos, but these are bigger than a standard taco, fluffy and wrapped in yellow paper. One of the men catches me looking and studies me.

I drop my gaze and pull down my hat, my heart thudding in my chest. No matter how much time passes I can’t shake the paranoia of being recognized. Even though I look nothing like the emaciated boy I was ten years ago, and this is a different town, different time, different me.

“Don’t look so sad. I promise you’re going to love it.” Shyann steps up to me with a paper plate in each hand and a can of soda under each arm. She shoves a plate into my lap and drops down beside me before handing me a Coke.

I study the yellow paper that cradles a puffy circle of bread and what looks like shredded meat, cheese, sour cream, and lettuce. “What is it?”