Marry Screw Kill(13)

“Thanks,” she responds in almost a question, looking up at me with a curious brow. Her confused face forces a smile from me. For some reason, I really do like this girl. I close the door after she’s in and hurry to the other side.

“Nice set of wheels,” I compliment once inside the car with her. “Safe and still a little edgy.”

“Thanks. The car was James’ idea,” she says with no emotion as we both buckle up.

“Yeah, he chose well.”

She flips on the air and her perfume punches me out of nowhere. Damn confined spaces. I take a moment and close my eyes. The scent borders between sophisticated and flowery, and very expensive.

I hope to hell this clerkship keeps me busy. Otherwise, it’s going to be four long weeks for me. Now, where the f*ck were we?

“So, you can’t go to the place we are heading to alone?” I wait for her to fill in the blanks.

“James doesn’t think it’s a good idea for me to go there.” She maneuvers the car out of the parking area. “And I hate to disobey him.”

Obey? What, is he her father?

“Why isn’t it a good idea?” I leave the obey part for later.

“There are people my age there. Single men. James worries about me in that kind of environment.”

“Really?” I would worry about you, too.

“He’s protective of me. It’s endearing at times.” She glances at me. “He doesn’t trust other men around me if he’s not there.”

“Seriously?” I ask in disbelief. She nods her head. “I’m pretty sure you could handle yourself in a restaurant in downtown Rochester.”

Something about Harlow and this entire conversation seems off. She hesitates as she gives me details, and blushes once she does. I feel like I’m only seeing the tip of the iceberg and the truth is lying under the water out of sight. James has never married, never even been close from what Nina says. Then he picks a young, beautiful innocent for his wife. Something doesn’t add up here and I hope to find out what’s behind his fears and demands. For Harlow’s sake.





Chapter Eight


Harlow



I try to keep my eyes on the road as I drive toward town, but all I want to do is look at him. Search his eyes again and confirm their unique whiskey color. Who has eyes like that? They’re almost unnatural.

Sinclair doesn’t fit the profile of the typical med students I’ve seen waltz through this town since I was a child. When he was walking down the ramp toward me at the airport, I had a totally different impression of him. He resembled an athlete with his tall frame, sculpted muscles, and mile-wide shoulders. I try to imagine him wearing a white doctor’s coat, and it doesn’t seem right.

By the way he speaks to me, kind and concerned, I see a soft side of him. A man proving he could dedicate himself to the sick and listen to their worries. A gentle giant might be the best description. Under the black clothes and boots, the rebel-looking exterior he owns, I think he’s a really sweet guy.

“Where’s the town?” Sinclair glances from side to side. I meet his eyes briefly, his brows gathered in question. “Nothing but fields and fences for as far as I can see.” He runs his fingers through his brown hair, mussing it nicely.

Stop ogling him, Harlow. But it’s no use. I keep turning to glance at him like a magnet to metal.

“The airport is built in the middle of nowhere, or more like dairy farmland.” I point out the cows on the right side of the road. “I promise there is a town up ahead.”

“Manhattan to farmland in under five hours. Amazing.” He shakes his head, and laughs.

“Don’cha know. I’d love to visit New York City someday. I’ve never been outside Minnesota. I was born and raised here.”

“Wow,” he says. I have to be the most boring person he’s ever met. A poor Minnesota girl with one main goal in life: surviving. That is, until I met James. “That accent. You sound so Fargo. It’s adorable.”

“I betcha think I’m from the backwoods,” I say “betcha” on purpose, but more as a tease. I have been working so hard on taming my Minnesota twang. James hates it and says it makes me appear low-class, but Sinclair appears amused and it makes me smile.

An easy silence transpires between us as I come closer to the turn off for James’ house. “Down the next road is the home James built on five acres. It has private fencing all around the property and a gated entrance. I call it The Fortress,” I laugh, and notice Sinclair’s silence. I sneak a quick look and find him shaking his head.

“You know he grew up on the Upper East Side,” Sinclair comments. “A high-energy concrete jungle. Here you can see open land stretching out forever. It’s the exact opposite of where he was raised. I still can’t believe he settled here.”

“He doesn’t really talk about his upbringing.” James hardly ever mentions his family, other than telling me no one’s crazy about us being together. I’m surprised Sinclair came here, even if it’s for a clerkship at The Clinic.

I point out a few landmarks on the way to the restaurant downtown. Well, actually, the only two we come across are the fairgrounds and a veteran’s memorial park. I’m embarrassed at the lack of culture in our town compared to what Sinclair has at his fingertips in New York City.