by Emily Childs
“Well, you get me, Your Highness. Now, let’s go.”
“Aren’t you a gentleman, you didn’t even offer to take my bag.”
I study the carry on. It’s on wheels. “What for? Are you afraid you’ll crash it and topple the building?”
She huffs, even pops a hip. And I like it. “Is this how it’s going to be for four weeks? You being a complete jerk?”
I smile, and it’s genuine. She’s holding back with jerk. I’d like to know what brings her to cursing. “It’s up to you, Jo-Jo. If you lose some of your hoity-toity attitude maybe I’ll let you get a peek at the nice guy inside. Now, are you coming? According to my information you’ve got about nine minutes to be out of this airport and on the road or there will be a nasty warrant out for your arrest.”
She grimaces. “My name is Josephine, Mr. Dawson. Not Jo-Jo.”
“Whatever you say, Jo-Jo.”
She complains about the humidity and pulls on sunglasses. I direct her to the parking garage, choosing to stay silent until we’re at my truck.
“Just toss the bag in the back.”
Jo gapes. “What? This is all I have. What if it bounces out?”
“Bounces out? Is it packed with feathers? Or do you think the road is filled with potholes? It’ll be fine.”
I’m growing fond of her little huffs, and guess she has a ripe mouth on her. Probably colorful and fiery, like her. She scurries along the sidewalk, balking at my blue pickup before bending over to grip the bottom of her bag. My Uncle Kent would smack me upside the head for not helping. It’s a little entertaining watching, though, and I’m not ready to step in just yet.
Jo wobbles on her heels, then with a grunt she launches the bag into the bed of the truck. She stars to fall back, but I do jump in now and catch her before she goes back.
Her hands curl around my arms, and I didn’t intend for my palm to rest on the small of her back. I swallow the stirring in my chest. She smells like sweet cherries and vanilla. Josephine’s sunglasses slip down so I meet her eyes. It’s unnerving how a single glance can wipe my mind blank. I’ve been told eyes are windows to the soul, if that’s true then there’s something more to this woman. Like a secret she hides in those eyes. Something she buries behind tough words and actions.
“You all right?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” She pulls away and straightens her billowy tank-top and sunglasses. “Would have been nice to have a little help before I nearly broke my ankle, but I figured I couldn’t expect as much from someone like you.”
And just like that, I’m over those dazzling eyes and on the defensive. I about rip the door off my truck. “Get in. I don’t plan to spend my entire night babysitting.”
She obeys, for once, and squishes as close to the passenger door as possible. She crosses her arms, even her knees, barring me out. The woman despises me, but I’m not her fan either.
And serves her right, being her. If she’d take a little accountability instead of blaming everyone else, I’d be more willing to help her out.
Melting into traffic, I turn up the radio, and start to regret pressing charges. The more tension builds between us, the more I feel like I’m the one who’s about to be punished a lot more than Josephine.