No Perfect Hero(6)

“Swear jar,” I remind her and sigh, leaning next to her. “I think he’s our new neighbor for the next few days.”

“Where’s he going?”

“I guess,” I say, “he’s going to swap our key.”

I can't shake that gnawing feeling as we stand around a little longer.

Please, just this once, let something go right.

Please just let the key swap be the end of my drama with this caveman and his temper tantrums.





*



Turns out, he wasn’t going to swap our key.

Tara and I have relocated to the back patio for now and sprawled ourselves out across a couple of very nice, plush patio chairs to wait for our new key.

I’m not going anywhere, anyway.

My bag’s still on the couch in that jerk’s place, and he’s locked us out. It’s just the right temperature outside to bask in the sun, anyway, with late afternoon trending toward evening – still warm enough to enjoy the bake without sweltering or worrying about sunscreen.

I’m close to dozing off when I’m snapped awake by the feeling of my bag landing on my stomach.

“Oof!”

I open my eyes, clutching at it and curling forward a little.

Asshole Extraordinaire stands over me, huge arms folded over his chest again like he’s making a bulwark out of himself, those hard blue eyes raking over me. I didn’t even hear him come back, he’s quiet like a lion.

Glowering up at him, I set my bag on the floor between the lounge chairs. “Was that really necessary?” I ask but don’t give him a chance to answer. I just hold out my hand, thinning my lips. “So where's the key?”

“No key,” he answers firmly. “I just bought out your side of the cabin. So you and your munchkin can be on your way somewhere else. I need my privacy.”

“I’m no munchkin,” Tara huffs. “I’m ten!”

“She’s ten,” I repeat, scowling at him. “And you don’t get to kick us out. We’re paying customers. Last I checked, you don't own this place.”

“If money’s what you’re worried about, I’ll pay you back double the room rate you paid Flynn.”

I eye him. What?

This is just getting...weird. And suspicious.

Why does he need to be alone so desperately that he’ll not only buy out the room rate, but spend even more to pay me back? Does this guy have a criminal background or something?

I shake my head. “Well, even if I wanted to take you up on your offer, I’m not going anywhere. I can’t.”

He arches one thick brow. “And why the hell not?”

“Our car broke down. Not that it’s any of your business, and not that I should have to justify myself to you,” I throw back. “And since this is the only game in town and the only room left, I’m not going anywhere unless you want to push my car all the way to the next town over.”

An odd transformation passes over the jerk’s face.

He actually looks worried for a moment. At least, I think that’s worry and not heartburn.

Then he scowls like he’s annoyed with himself for daring to feel a pang of guilt. There's worry again, then just grim resignation.

Goliath sighs, the sharp crags of his brows drawing together as he closes his eyes and rubs a thick, coarsely shaped hand over his face.

“I’m guessing Flynn called Stewart up at the garage about your car.”

“I wouldn’t know since the only thing I’ve been able to deal with since getting here is you. Guess I wouldn’t be surprised if Flynn didn’t bother calling about my car since you told him I’m leaving.”

There's that worried look again. He reaches up, pinches between his brows, almost pained, before he closes his eyes again and presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. “You’re not going anywhere.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” he growls, “forget it. I’m not gonna dump you out on the street in a busted car with nowhere to go and a mun—” He darts a look at Tara. “A young lady with you.”

I stare at him.

Wow. Is this porcupine lunk actually trying to be chivalrous? It's almost too easy.

I’m not ready to buy it. Or accept it.

Folding my arms over my chest, I look away from him.

“I’ll believe that when I actually have a room key.”

He heaves a massive sigh, raking a hand back through his hair until the thick, dark mass spikes up in a boyish mess, softening the chiseled harshness of his features. “Yeah. About that. Give me a minute.”

This time I hear him walking swiftly. Instead of that silent cat-like tread, his step is heavy, weary, and even without looking, I can imagine the heaving sway of those massive shoulders.

This man is just officially too much.

And I don’t even know his name.





*



It’s another twenty minutes before he returns.

A whole twenty minutes I spend soothing Tara’s ruffled feathers, promising her we’ll go find something fun to do tomorrow to make up for this crap circus.

I won’t repeat the things she calls Goliath. They might not be swear jar worthy, but they're pretty playground-level mean.