Hitched(54)

What do we do?

I can fix the truck, but it’ll take time. We could take her truck, but she’ll probably short out her starter too.

“Let’s just think for a second.” I slam out of the driver’s seat and circle the truck, racking my brain, and then it hits me.

I know exactly how to get to Kyle’s place.

Hope’s still in the passenger seat, face in her hands, looking every bit as defeated as the day we ran into each other in Vegas four years ago. I pull open the truck door and reach over to unstrap her seatbelt. “It’s going to be okay, Hope, we’re going to get him back.”

“How? Kyle has more money and better lawyers and—mmph!”

I press my lips to hers and thread my fingers through her hair, tasting coffee and panic, and she slowly relaxes into me and kisses me back.

Kind of.

“No—time—save—Chewpaca—oh,” she murmurs between kisses.

“Trust me, baby,” I whisper against her lips.

She melts into me, and I make love to her sweet mouth until I feel that humming, fizzing sensation prickling at my skin begin to fade away. When it’s gone, I give her one last sweet kiss before I pull back and tip her chin up. “You okay?”

She blinks twice, then nods slowly. “Yeah. I’m okay. At least okay enough not to blow anything else up.”

“Then let’s take your truck.”

We switch vehicles, and I get her old beater going without a hitch. As soon as we’re flying down the road, I grip her hand. “Just breathe. It’ll be okay. Feeling like you can try the lawyer on your phone?”

She nods, but keeps a firm grip on my hand while she dials Mr. Ashford.

I steer us through Happy Cat to the sprawling neighborhood not far from the golf course, where the richest residents live in mini mansions with ten-acre lots of rolling green grass, while Hope leaves a message for the attorney about custody of Chewpaca. She hangs up as I’m pulling her truck to a stop in front of the two-story brick colonial where Kyle lives. “I’m not going to call the sheriff yet. Not if we can work this out peacefully first. St. Claires don’t like to make scenes.” She hands the phone over. “But be ready if things turn ugly.”

She’s up the sidewalk and charging past the white porch columns before I’m fully out of the truck.

“Open up, Kyle! I know you’re in there!” She pounds her fist on the door. “I can smell the stink of laziness and alpaca-napping from all the way out here!”

“I should’ve run over his rosebush,” I mutter.

“It’s not the rosebush’s fault he’s an asshole.” She jams a finger into the doorbell, which issues one gargled chime before it explodes with a sharp pop, and a thread of smoke drifts lazily into the morning air.

“Maybe we can figure out how to channel this electrical energy for the forces of good,” I say as she starts banging on the door again. “Get you a super suit or something.”

“Superheroes aren’t real,” she grits out.

“Yes, they are. You’re a superhero.”

She stops banging and looks at me, pain filling her pretty brown eyes, and I want to scoop her up and take her and all of her animals away from this bullshit.

Far, far away.

Winery be damned.

I just want her to be safe and happy and loved.

“You’re a superhero to every single one of those animals you rescue,” I continue, answering the dubious wrinkle of her brows. “You nurse them. You give them a home. You fight for them. Even the ones no one else wants. Especially the ones that no one else wants. That’s more heroic than anything I’ve done in my life, and it’s inspiring. I’m so proud of you.”

She blinks like she’s on the verge of tears again. “I—thank you. I don’t…I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before.”

My head rears back. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m a college dropout without a real job.” She makes air quotes around real job, and I want to punch whoever made her feel like college and a paycheck from someone else is all that matters in life. “That doesn’t count for pride points where I come from.”

“You stand on your own two feet and save more lives in any given week than most people do in a lifetime. You’re amazing. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

The door swings open, and a droopy-faced Kyle with hooded lids, wearing a rumpled suit jacket paired with a pair of bright green jogging shorts, stares stupidly at us. “Whaddya want?” he slurs.

Hope lunges for him, but I grab her before she can get her hands around his throat.

“We want the alpaca back,” I tell him. “Now.”

“You nasty, thieving, lying scumbag,” she adds. She pauses, and then she spits at his feet. “And that’s for every time you called him a llama.”

His barely-focused eyes sharpen. A little. “Whadder you talkin’ ’bout?” He points an unsteady finger at the ground and adds, “Thas gross. And unlady—” He burps. Loudly. Before finishing without a trace of irony. “Unladylike.”

Hope grimaces and rears back with a soft gag as the scent of him drifts out onto the porch.

Dude smells like he showered in stale whiskey while chugging a six-pack of cheap beer.